


Pylades Fasting

by nightrose



Series: Pylades Fasting [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Body Image, Body Worship, Developing Relationship, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 19:23:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2519021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightrose/pseuds/nightrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Grantaire doesn’t eat. Sometimes he eats more than he should and makes himself throw up. But he’s pretty sure it’s not a problem. He’s still going to work and dance, still going out drinking with his friends, still in love with a man he’ll never be good enough for. Until he is, and everything with Enjolras is happening so fast and so wonderfully it doesn’t even seem real… and then maybe he realizes he can’t keep doing this forever, and he can’t stop doing it alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pylades Fasting

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this is such a frightening thing. I had a really difficult time writing this fic, since it's more than a little based on my own experience, and I've been working on it for months and months. I hope you all will like it!
> 
> Content warnings for: thoughts of self-harm, eating disorders (restrictive and purging), disordered thinking about food and body image, history of emotional abuse by a partner and verbal abuse by a parent. 
> 
> I want to make it super clear that this might be triggering for folks- a lot of disordered thought processes are represented as they happen in this fic and I know that could bring people down. Please take care of yourselves. 
> 
> On a happier note, thanks so much to my lovely artist, ladytaire. She has done some incredible work and I'm so lucky to have her as a partner on this project. You can find the gorgeous fanmixes she made me here: http://8tracks.com/ladytaire/hunger-hurts and here http://8tracks.com/ladytaire/pylades-fasting
> 
> And of course a million thanks to the Big Bang mods for all their hard, hard work on making this fantastic challenge happen.

Grantaire starts his day off the way he usually does. He gets out of bed, having slept naked as usual, glances blearily at the clock—it’s 11:30, not too bad—and then stands up to look at himself in the mirror.

 

His hair is an absolute mess, as usual. He hasn’t combed it yet, but even after he does it won’t do much good. He has a little scar over his too-thick brows that he hates. His nose healed crooked after getting broken in a bar fight, and his mouth is too small for his face. His eyes are boring brown. At least there’s some muscle on his arms, but that doesn’t hide the stretch marks there. He has to peer closely to see the rows and rows of tiny, thin white scars on his forearms. No one else would notice them, and that at least is a blessing, but it’s just one more way his body is marred.

 

The scars on his thighs are worse. There the cutting scars are mixed in with stretch marks and the constant scabby mess he has from where his legs rub together when he walks. His chest is too hairy and he has weird knobby feet and his stomach is huge and stretch-marked and disgusting.

 

He’s disgusted by himself.

 

Luckily he’s already slept past breakfast. He fucked up last night. He hadn’t eaten in two days and felt pretty dizzy, so he let Bahorel talk him into going for burgers and then got cheese on and fries with his, even though he’d already drunk his calorie allowance for the day, and then when he got home he was still riding high from the night out. He felt great, actually, not like he needed to purge or anything. So he didn’t, and now it’s too late. Now he’s ruined everything, two whole days of perfect fasting, because he’s weak. He’s weak and useless and fat and disgusting, and he makes himself look and look until he feels sick to his stomach just thinking about himself.

 

It helps. Doing this always helps. He woke up- not hungry exactly, but the greasy, hungover kind of feeling that's best settled by a nice slice of bread and some tea for breakfast.

 

Doing this reminds him that he can't afford that.

 

He makes deals with himself a lot. When his brain is racing like this, when he's so nervous about nothing and everything, it calms him down. The deal he makes with himself is this: in four days, there is an Amis meeting in the evening. If he doesn't eat between now and then, he won't have to feel guilty when they go out for food afterwards. If he fucks up and binges, he doesn't get to go because he won't deserve to see his friends.

 

That's good. He can do that.

 

He has tea with no milk and lots of Splenda before leaving the house. His rules for fasting are simple: no-calorie soda, tea, and coffee only. Usually tea, because coffee makes him feel ill when it’s completely black, and sometimes after a few days of fasting he starts to get paranoid that maybe  he’s somehow switched out real sugar for the diet stuff. He allows himself one serving of raw veggies or a piece of fruit, but more often than not he decides he'd rather take those sixty calories a day in the form of a vodka shot.

 

It makes getting drunk cheaper, anyway. Usually by the end of a day without food, all it takes is that one shot burning down his throat to soothe him enough so he can sleep.

 

When he's eating, he never drinks vodka. As a teenager the smell reminded him too much of his dad, and now it also reminds him too much of this, too much of these long hungry days

 

He makes another deal with himself.

 

If he goes without his shot as well, all three nights between now and the meeting, he gets to talk to Enjolras.

 

Not a confession- of feelings or anything else. Just talking. Probably Enjolras will be as disinterested in him as ever but a little haughty pity from him is a better reward than anything Grantaire can think of. Being noticed, being in his orbit, being allowed to watch him soar, is all Grantaire wants.

 

Well, he also wants breakfast, but that will go away soon enough.

 

He’ll weigh himself when he gets home tonight. He can’t afford to right now. He needs to get to work and he’s pretty sure he’s up a few pounds from yesterday. If he’s distracted by that fact all day, he won’t sell anything and frankly he really needs to be at his best.

 

He goes off to open up his booth. Grantaire loves his work, and honestly it's one of the things he's willing to admit that he is good at. Most of the _bouquinistes_ have a very strict policy of almost aggressive disdain towards their customers, who are admittedly mostly the kind of tourists that most people think are ruining Paris.

 

Grantaire is sort of fond of them, though. He’s one of the only booksellers who allows them to take photos, for example, and he tries to give them good recommendations for places to eat when they ask (although sometimes he gets frustrated at the twentieth time a day when someone wants a cheap, good, three-course dinner near the Louvre, because Grantaire’s knowledge of the city is extensive and that place _does not exist_ ). He sells some of his crappier, touristier paintngs, as well, usually at least a few a day, and draws caricatures while people browse the books he has out.

 

 It gives him a chance to practice different art styles than his serious work—some realistic, if excessively romantic, paintings of views over the Seine or Notre Dame, some quick sketches of faces, some funny caricatures. He also gets to keep up his languages; English, obviously, but everyone speaks that in Paris these days, he speaks pretty good Spanish and Italian, his German is passable, and he can at least conduct business and chat a little in Arabic and Mandarin. He meets people from all over the world—some irritating tourists just there because it’s a thing to do, yes, but more people who genuinely love adventure, exchange students speaking in halting French, kids backpacking from all over Europe, old couples celebrating the anniversary of their honeymoons here—it’s great work, and he’s lucky he can do it. Plus, he can keep his own hours. If he doesn’t show up, the only person he’s disappointing is himself, and he’s doing that anyway. Or if something goes well, if he’s teaching a dance or kickboxing lesson, or on the rare occasions some of his serious art gets a little attention from a gallery or a buyer, he’s able to slip away and take care of that. All he has to do is lock up his box and go.

 

And sometimes there are days when he’s too hungry and tired to get out of bed, and he’s perfectly free to stay at home and hate himself all day long.

 

By two or so, when he usually takes his lunch break, he’s pretty hungry. As in, he’s actually feeling pangs of hunger. He just works through it, though. He strikes up a conversation with a young couple strolling by and sweet-talks them into sitting for a little portrait. He sells it to the two of them for next to nothing, gratefully realizing that by the time they’re gone, his hunger has dissolved into a vague empty feeling. He’s a little faint, but it’s not too bad.

 

That’s the worst of it. He drinks some water, though it doesn’t help much with the drifty feeling. It keeps his stomach from cramping quite as badly, and by the time he closes up his booth around nine to go home, he isn’t even really hungry anymore.

 

He skips his time in the studio today. The first day is always the worst. Tomorrow he’ll be able to function pretty much like normal, or so he hopes. He can only take so much time out of his life for this, after all.

 

He sleeps soundly, and when he wakes up he isn’t hungry at all. Still tired, despite close to fifteen hours of sleep, but not hungry, not in the way that he felt yesterday, the horrible cramping pains in his gut. It takes more coffee than normal for him to have enough energy to get out of the house, but by the evening, he’s fine. He gets some good painting done, and he’s sure he’s going to make it.

 

On the third day, he faints on his way to work. It happens gradually, though—one minute he’s all right, the next he’s dizzy enough that he decides to sit down on a bench, the next he’s waking up and five minutes have gone by. Fortunately, no one noticed.

 

He drinks a lot of diet soda and makes it through that day and the next, his stomach so bloated from the soda bubbles that he barely notices the hunger. He still feels weak but that doesn’t matter. Better to feel weak than to give in and _be_ weak.

 

 The next day, he closes up early, around five, and decides to take a nap. If he doesn’t feel better, he reasons, he can always eat an apple or something before the meeting. That wouldn’t be so bad, that wouldn’t ruin everything.

 

He’ll nap first, though, see if he feels up to dancing after just that.

 

He falls asleep immediately and then has the nightmare.

 

It’s not the first time—and it’s always just as awful.

 

The dream starts out with Grantaire thinking, very clearly, ‘I must be dreaming.’ He thinks this because Enjolras is kissing him in the dream. It feels so real, though. Enjolras is so beautiful and is looking at him with so much intensity, just looking and looking at his face like he’s trying to memorize him, trying to learn every inch of him, and then suddenly he’s leaning in and his hands are on Grantaire’s face and he’s kissing him. At first, Grantaire is too stunned to do anything, but then he kisses back.

 

Because it’s a dream, time jumps. The next thing he knows, he’s in his bedroom, Enjolras leading him by the hand through the doorway and into the room. Enjolras pushes him down onto the bed, smirking, and Grantaire grins up at him, and then Enjolras is on top of him, pinning him down and kissing him again. And because it’s a dream, Enjolras is passionate and intense and completely in control, controlling Grantaire and keeping him right where he wants him and also looking at him like he’s the best thing in the universe, sort of like how in real life Grantaire looks at Enjolras.

 

And then Enjolras' hands are on the hem of his shirt, gently tugging upwards. Grantaire moves to stop him.

  
  
Enjolras' smile turns into a gentle frown, almost a pout. "Let me see you, love?" he asks, and Grantaire can't say no. He could never say no to Enjolras, even though he knows this is ending the way the nightmare has so many times before. He shrugs off his t-shirt and slowly looks up to see how Enjolras takes it.

  
  
Enjolras is looking at him. All that gentleness, all that love- gone. Gone, because now he's seen what Grantaire usually hides under too-big hoodies and a slumped posture. Gone, and replaced with nothing but cold revulsion because Enjolras has seen his disgusting body.

 

He closes his eyes, waiting, waiting. But Enjolras doesn’t say anything- in the dream, he never does. He doesn’t say a word. When Grantaire dares to open his eyes, Enjolras is gone.

  
  
Grantaire wakes up.

  
He's grateful for the dream. Two days later, his head spinning and his hands shaking, he decides to break his fast. He weighs himself first.

  
He's lost seven pounds this week. He feels good for almost a whole moment, and then makes himself picture Enjolras' face in his dream.

  
It's not enough. He's not done enough. He's not good enough.

  
It's easy not to eat, after that. He skips the meeting, too. Next week, maybe. Next week he'll deserve to see his friends, to eat, to laugh. Maybe.

 

 

* * *

 

Grantaire isn't at the meeting.

  
  
Enjolras is supposed to be giving a speech about incorporating body image awareness into the work the Amis do with queer activism. He's been practicing the speech for weeks, and he wanted to see how Grantaire would react. He's planning on asking and everything- Grantaire rarely directs his snark directly at Enjolras, unless Enjolras approaches him. Still, he imagines if he asks Grantaire will be happy to share with him exactly how ridiculous he thinks it is that a tall, slim, white, beautiful man thinks he gets to speak on this topic.

 

He knows Grantaire thinks he’s beautiful. Or at least he hopes so. He says it often enough, but Grantaire says all kinds of things. Maybe he’s just trying to get a rise out of Enjolras. It’s entirely possible, but he hopes it isn’t. He really hopes that Grantaire feels something for him.

 

It’s so hard to tell with him. When he’s really drunk, he’ll frequently wax poetic about his friends, and usually about Enjolras. It makes Enjolras blush and stammer and sometimes, shamefully, shout at him because it’s so embarassing and he doesn’t know what else to do.

 

But he has no idea if Grantiare is serious, or if he’s just being provocative as usual. Enjolras sighs.

 

“What’s up?” Courfeyrac whispers.

 

“Huh? Nothing.”

 

“You seem distracted.”

 

“Um. R isn’t here.”

 

Courfeyrac looks around the crowded room. “You’re right. He must have decided to skip out today.”

 

“Do you know why not?”

 

“No. He’s been busy with work, though.”

 

Enjolras nods, a little embarassed to have forgotten. He knows, intellectually, that it’s a luxury and a privilege that he’s able to devote almost all his time to Les Amis—after all, he doesn’t have to work. He never has, though, and so it’s easy to forget that many people, even most of his friends, have to work for a living. “Right.”

 

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Courfeyrac asks, grinning.

 

“What?”

 

“Well, you just seem really upset that R isn’t here. That’s all.”

 

“Oh. Yeah. I was hoping he’d give me some feedback on the speech.”

 

“Sure you were.”

 

Enjolras blinks. “What do you mean?”

 

“Since when do you welcome Grantaire’s rambling about your speeches?”

 

“I don’t think it’s rambling.” Sometimes it is, obviously, but sometimes the things Grantaire says are almost shockingly eloquent, considering the fact that he’s making them up on the spot. Enjolras practices his speeches for hours, and still he doesn’t always make it to that level of cleverness. “Besides, I guess I kind of miss him. It’s been a whole week.”

 

“You are _so obvious._ ”

 

Enjolras blushes. “Obvious about what?”  


“Why don’t you just ask him out already?”

 

“He’d never say yes.”

 

Courfeyrac turns and stares at him for several unbroken seconds. Then he sighs. “Enjolras, seriously. Talk to him.”

 

Enjolras can’t meet his eyes. “What if he laughs at me?”

 

“He wouldn’t.”

 

“He laughs about everything. And I’ve never-“

 

Courfeyrac reaches over and squeezes his hand. “Look, I can’t- I told R- Okay. So I’m not going to tell you anything more, because I said I wouldn’t and I _can so_ keep a secret. But the thing is. I don’t think Grantaire would mind me telling you- I promise, he is not going to laugh at you, okay? At the very, very least, you know how much he respects you. Even just—as a leader, or as a friend. He respects you too much to let your feelings for him change anything.”

 

“You’re sure?”

 

“I promise.”

 

Enjolras hesitates. “Okay.”

 

“Enjolras?” Combeferre hisses. “Time for the speech.”

 

Enjolras tries his best to clear his head of the thousands of questions he suddenly has, of the lingering sadness that Grantaire isn’t here, of his surprisingly strong ache to see that familiar mop of black curls in the crowd.

 

He isn’t here, though, and he isn’t coming.

 

Still, the speech has to get made. He was proud of it this morning, proud of it and looking forward to making it. He’s not, now, too distracted by these sudden and too-strong feelings, but nonetheless he gives it.

 

Next week, he tells himself.

 

Next week, he’ll ask.

 

* * *

 

 

Friday night, Grantaire gets a text from Joly.

 

-Drinks at the Musain! Everyone coming (even E) u should 2! Missed u @ meeting-

 

-You have a full keyboard, Joly. I don’t understand why you insist on texting like a 14-year old. See you tonight-

 

-xoxo ily-

 

Grantaire snorts and puts his phone away, going to get dressed.

 

It’s been two days since he broke his fast, and he still feels shitty about it. He could have gone for longer. Maybe.

 

Things were getting hard, though. He made the choice to eat, consciously—he still didn’t want to. He could have kept going, but he needed some energy to work on a commission and that meant food.

 

Maybe he could have gone without it. He can’t be sure.

 

But he didn’t, and that’s over now. He’s been doing okay with eating—no binging, small, healthy meals only. Tonight maybe he’ll even have a burger or something at the pub and not feel bad about it.

 

He’s practically cheerful as he gets dressed and heads over. It’s always easier to see Enjolras outside of meetings, as rarely as the other man makes it to social events. Enjolras seems almost more human when he’s surrounded by his friends instead of lit up by the beauty of his cause.

 

Everyone surrounds Grantaire when he arrives, demanding to know where he was at the last meeting, his friends hugging him or clapping his shoulder. It’s a good feeling, the feeling of being wanted somewhere.

 

Enjolras hasn’t arrived yet, but that’s all right. He accepts a drink from Joly and downs it. The whisky goes through him fast and hot. It’s been almost two weeks since he drank and it feels good. He’s missed this.

 

Missed it too much, because he’s far too eager to accept the second round, and then the third. Then he announces he’s buying for everyone. Then things start to blur together—they order dinner and he downs a burger and curly fries, and then they have to have beers to go with it, and then Bahorel is dancing on a table, and then Courfeyrac’s shirt is coming off-- and at some point Enjolras is there.

 

He’s had six (seven?) drinks already, and they’ve only been there about an hour, and when he stands up to hug Enjolras, the world gets a little shaky and he can’t quite get on his feet. So he says, “Enjolras!”

 

“Hello, Grantaire.”

 

Enjolras seems even less happy to see him than usual. Grantaire doesn’t like that. “Come over here and give me a kiss hello!”

 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Enjolras says, stiffly.

 

Grantaire feels himself pouting. “Please?”

 

“You’re too drunk, R.”

 

Grantaire grins, holding out his half-empty glass. “Leave me a kiss, but in the cup, and I’ll not look for wine.”

 

“No,” Enjolras says, and now his voice is sharp.

 

He’s mad, and that’s awful—he’s mad, mad at Grantaire, and Grantaire wants to shrink away but Enjolras is looking right at him. Enjolras is looking at nothing but him and so he says, “What, too good for me, Apollo?”

 

Bossuet is laying a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder—“R, man, don’t—“ but Grantaire ignores him.

 

“Not a kiss, then. Hug me. Hold my hand for a second. One touch, that’s all I’m asking.”

 

“Grantaire,” and Enjolras has become properly angry. “Go back to your drink, or go home.”

 

Instead, he goes to the bathroom. He pushes his chair out, trying to be loud, trying to be irritating. He hopes Enjolras will notice, will frown at him, will be sorry he’s going. He doesn’t look up.

 

Suddenly he’s so anxious he almost can’t breathe.

 

He’s pissed Enjolras off. He’s fucked everything up again.

 

He shouldn’t have left his house. He shouldn’t have drunk. He shouldn’t have eaten earlier.

 

He feels his own loathesomeness  intently. He feels suddenly huge, enormous. The pressure of his pants against his legs is unbearable. He thinks of Enjolras shouting at him and feels nauseous, remembering his own stupid, drunken words.

 

What did he think was going to happen? Did he think there was any chance Enjolras would say yes?

 

Even he isn’t that crazy. There’s no way. It’s not worth hoping. Certainly not worth drunkenly hitting on the man and making him uncomfortable.

 

Enjolras must be disgusted with him.

 

Enjolras must hate him.

 

Grantaire certainly hates himself.

 

He wishes he’d stayed home, wishes he’d never left his apartment where at least he’s the only one he has to inflict his pathetic self on.

 

He wishes he could take his words back. He’d do almost anything if he could go back in time and make it so he didn’t say any of that, so he’d been silent or at least polite when Enjolras came in, so Enjolras could have ignored him like he always does. That would have been fine.

  
He wishes he could take back those drinks, too. His drunkenness only makes Enjolras hate him more and he knows that but he can’t help himself.

 

He wishes he could have stopped himself from eating all that.

 

That, at least, he can go back and undo.

 

He locks the door on the stall and goes to his knees. He tries not to think of how filthy this toilet probably is as he takes his fingers and reaches for the back of his throat.

 

The first time he gags, it isn’t enough. Nothing comes up. It doesn’t even turn his stomach. 

 

He takes a deep breath and does it again. This time, he feels a roll of nausea and chokes a little, tears coming to his eyes. He’s seeing stars everywhere, points of white prickling his vision, and he ignores the dizziness with a vengeance. His body is shouting at him not to do this but he knows his body has no idea what’s best for him, anyway. He can’t stop. He can’t fail at this too.

 

The third time, he starts to taste bile in the back of his throat.

  
He leans further over, so his head is right over the toilet, and tries again. This time he jabs his fingers in deeper, viciously, angrily. It hurts and he deserves this. It’s his punishment for being such a fuck-up, for being such an ugly, worthless creep.

 

It’s the only way to make himself better. It’s the only thing he can fix.

 

He keeps his fingers there as he chokes and sputters and gags. It’s a miserable few seconds that feels like years, and then suddenly he’s tasting vomit. He pulls his fingers away and retches into the toilet, his throat stinging as burgers and booze come back up.

 

He coughs a little, and his eyes are teary.

 

But not everything has come up. It’s a small amount, not everything he’d eaten tonight at the Musain and certainly not his lunch from earlier.

 

He has to keep going.

 

His fingers go back in his throat and he retches around them again and again but nothing else comes up, nothing but green bile, burning his fingers and his mouth.

 

The tears fall, half-pain and half-frustration, and he’s disgusted with himself. He can’t even do this right.

 

He’s useless and pathetic, crying on a bathroom floor in a dirty bar. He can’t even make himself throw up properly, that’s how weak he is. He isn’t even strong enough to make himself hurt the way he deserves to.

 

He just doesn’t care enough, that’s all. If he really wanted to be good enough, he could do it. But it must not matter enough because he can’t.

 

His mouth is stinging and it tastes foul and tears are burning his eyes and it’s a little hard to breathe.

 

He stays there on the bathroom floor until he starts to feel light-headed enough that he thinks he should probably head home. Luckily, none of the Amis notice him on his way from the bathroom to the door, and he makes it home safely enough, to brush his teeth and fall into bed and cry himself to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras is furious with himself.

 

He keeps reliving two moments, all through the night. One is real, and one imagined.

 

He imagines taking Grantaire up on it, imagines telling him ‘yes.’ And everything that would have followed. He imagines pressing his lips to Grantaire’s. He can imagine how soft Grantaire’s mouth would have been. His breath would be sour from drink but it wouldn’t matter, Enjolras wouldn’t care, because he’d finally be that close to Grantaire, as close as he’s been fantasizing about for so long.

 

He could tangle his fingers in Grantaire’s hair and feel how soft and thick his beautiful curls are. Grantaire would hold him in return, those strong fingers cupping Enjolras’ cheek. He imagines every detail of how it could have been, how tentative and how sweet but also how perfect.

 

And then he thinks of what really happened.

 

He thinks of how cruelly he turned Grantaire down.

 

It was right to say no—Grantaire was too intoxicated to consent, and he doesn’t want their relationship to start off with something Grantaire likely won’t even remember. And yet he shouldn’t have done it the way he did.

 

He should have been kinder. He _can_ be kinder. He can persuade anyone else into almost anything—why couldn’t he persuade Grantaire into putting this off just a while? He couldn’t have come up with ‘Ask me tomorrow?’ and a flirtatious smile?

 

No, he couldn’t, because for some reason Grantaire, of all people, shuts him down completely. He can’t think at all when Grantaire is around, and he doesn’t know why.

 

Well, he doesn’t want to admit to himself why.

 

He can’t think when Grantaire is around because he’s completely head over heels for the man. He thinks about him constantly. Everything about him—his drunken rambles, his constantly disheveled clothes, his fucking _stubble_ —distracts Enjolras utterly, like nothing else can.

 

He shut Grantaire down like that because he wanted to say yes. So instead he was deliberately unkind?

 

He’s furious at himself.

 

He hopes Grantaire cares as little about their arguments as he pretends to, but deep down he knows that’s not really true. He knows the nonchalance is an act—he sees the way Grantaire retreats into himself afterwards, the way he drinks more, the way he avoids Enjolras’ eyes. He saw Grantaire sneak away last night, not returning to the party at all.

 

He didn’t need to do that. He could have just said a simple no. He didn’t have to shout.

 

He’s presumably ruined everything now. Grantaire won’t try again.

 

Enjolras has maybe never been angrier at himself. He doesn’t usually second-guess his decisions. He’s a confident man and he prides himself on that, on a certain self-assuredness.

 

But Grantaire turns that upside-down. Changes everything.

 

And Enjolras, honestly, frankly, loves it.

 

Loves him.

 

He does, he realizes. It’s more than infatuation. He really is in love with Grantaire.

 

And he’s never been the kind of person to sit on his feelings. No, he’ll have to come up with some way to make up for last night’s disaster. He’ll get Grantaire to try again, or he’ll make the first move this time.

 

And if it fails, it fails. Enjolras is nervous at the thought, of course. He doesn’t want to risk losing the tentative friendship they have. But anything worth doing is worth taking a risk for.

 

Besides, it’s not like he’ll be going in unprepared. Enjolras is lucky enough to have intelligent, generous, extremely nosy friends, who will doubtless be only too happy to share their opinions.

 

They’ll mock him when he asks, of course, but the thought of that would-be kiss, of doing it properly with both of them sober and wanting, of Grantaire’s infuriating beautiful mouth against his own, is tempting enough to brace him for Courfeyrac’s worst teasing.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire has to let it go.

 

He doesn’t have any other option.

 

Today’s a good day. He wakes up, has breakfast, and heads off to work. He needs to make some money today, he’s a bit dizzy, and he can’t spend all his time pining over Enjolras. That’s unhealthy, which he’s willing to accept, and creepy, which he’s really trying to avoid.

 

Besides, Enjolras made his feelings very clear last night. That’s the good thing about being in love with an unattainable man who hates him—no ambiguity. No, Enjolras is crystal clear with Grantaire about his disdain, and always has been.

 

The only times Grantaire’s gotten much sympathy out of him is when he comes in roaring drunk or once when he missed too many meetings in a row. He was in one of his worst depressions since college and for some reason Enjolras took it upon his high and mighty self to drop by.

 

When he found Grantaire in his pajamas, unshowered, surrounded by half-empty booze bottles, he didn’t so much as wrinkle his nose.

 

“What can I do to help?” he’d asked.

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Nonsense. You’d feel better if it were a little tidier here, I bet. May I?”

 

And he’d uncomplainingly, without in fact saying much of anything, thrown away the bottles, opened the curtains, wiped off the counters, and set about making tea. He also made some very burned pasta, laughed, and ordered the both of them takeout.

 

Grantaire ate it all under his watchful eye, and although he threw it up as soon as Enjolras was gone, he’s lived on that memory for months. The way Enjolras had looked at him…

 

Well, it was pity more than anything else. Enjolras felt terrificallly, totally sorry for him, and not much else.

 

But pity is better than hatred, and at least he’d stayed for a while. At least Grantaire’s mess of an apartment had been brightened by his presence, in much the same way that Grantaire’s mess of a life is brightened by his existence.

 

Grantaire is, perhaps contrary to appearances from the previous night, quite happy to pine from afar. He will no doubt always be in love with Enjolras, but he’s quite readily accepted that they’ll never be together. They’ll never be anything more than awkward acquaintances.

 

He doesn’t need any more, though.

 

He’d like it—he’d certainly accept an offer for friendship or anything else Enjolras wanted. But he’s content with what they have.

 

Simply basking in Enjolras’ light will always be enough for him.

 

And maybe he’ll cut down a bit on the drinking. He really disgraced himself last night, and his friends deserve better than that. They shouldn’t have to see him that way. Shouldn’t have to worry about him.

 

So Grantaire doesn’t drink at all that day, or the next.

 

The following evening, at the meeting, he orders tea instead of wine. No one notices, except Joly who teases him a little bit for missing out on the fun. Grantaire is far from too proud to admit that he was hoping for some recognition, maybe even some praise, from Enjolras, but when he doesn’t get it, that’s all right.

 

It’s enough just to see him shine as he delivers his speech, fielding questions from the others.

 

It’s enough to be in his orbit.

 

* * *

 

“Courf, help,” Enjolras says, happy to find his friend the only one yet at the Musain as he arrives early for a meeting.

 

“What’s that?” Courfeyrac trills, grinning.

 

Enjolras grits his teeth. “I need your help.”

 

“Are there flyers to be passed out?”

 

“No.”

 

“Revolutionary sentiment to be stirred up?”

 

“No.”

 

“Do you need me to give a speech?”

 

“ _Emile de Courfeyrac_ -“

 

“Oh, is it a matter of the heart? Why, you should have said something.”

 

Enjolras sighs. “Do you have to do this?”

 

“I’m contractually obligated, yes. Unless you want to come right out and tell me what’s wrong.”

 

“Fine. Okay. Yes, I have a- I think I have a crush. On Grantaire. And I think I really, really fucked things up the other night and I don’t know what to do.”

 

“Sit down,” Courfeyrac suggests firmly.

 

Enjolras does as he’s told.

 

“I’m not going to lie to you, Enjolras, shutting Grantaire down the way you did probably did not help your chances with him.”

 

“That’s what I thought.”

 

“Then why did you do it? If you like him, why not take him up on it?”

 

“He was drunk, Courf. Too drunk. And I know it’s only a kiss, but I- I want to be sure he really wants it. I never know, with him, if he’s just trying to get a rise out of me or if there’s something more to it. I want it to be something more, I do, but I just can’t be sure when he’s drunk like that.”

 

Courfeyrac sighs, and mutters, “If only I weren’t such a man of my word.”

 

“What?”

 

“Oh, I’m so fucking bad at this. You know what? Grantaire is going to forgive me, I’m pretty sure.”

 

“Forgive you for what?” Enjolras tries to stop the hope that’s leaping in his chest.

 

“He made us all promise none of us would tell you if you didn’t guess. Although how the hell you don’t know is a mystery to me. Everyone knows. Space aliens know.”

 

“Know what, Courf, if you don’t tell me I swear-“

 

“Grantaire is in love with you!” Courfeyrac blurts, then claps his hand over his mouth. “Oh, shit, I really wasn’t supposed to say. He didn’t want you to find out.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“He thought you’d-“

 

“Do what I did last night,” Enjolras says, disappointed in himself. “Push him away.”

 

“Okay, but now you have to ask him out. I know he’ll forgive me for telling if you do, and I know it’s what both of you want. He wants it more than anything but he’s not ever going to be the one to ask you. You have to do it. You know about R’s issues—some of them—and I’m telling you you have to be the one to take this step. For his sake.”

 

“I will,” Enjolras assures him. “Thank you, Courfeyrac.”

 

“Don’t make me sorry I told you. He doesn’t have a lot of people he can trust.”

 

“I promise, you won’t be.”

 

The others trickle in one by one or two by two. Grantaire is among the first to arrive. He doesn’t even look at Enjolras when he gets there, staring resolutely at the ground.

 

Courfeyrac was right. Enjolras has to be the one to make this leap, to close the distance between the two of them.

 

“Grantaire? Can I speak to you for a moment?”

 

“Anything for you,” Grantaire says, still not looking up.

 

“I want to apologize,” Enjolras says, “for the way I spoke to you last night, and in the past. The truth is… the truth is, that I didn’t know what to do, so I lost my temper. Because I was frightened. Frightened at how I was feeling, and frightened because, frankly, I really, really wanted to say yes, and I’ve never felt like this before for anyone.”

 

“Enjolras?” Grantaire says, his eyes darting upwards, tentatively. Enjolras can see the expression in them, the warmth and the nervousness and the devotion and the doubt all at once. How has he never seen this before? How has he let his own insecurity—his own inexperience—keep this from him?

 

“So I pushed you away, just as I’ve been pushing you away for so long, because I just didn’t know what else to do, what else to say. But now I know, R. I know what I want. I want you to be my boyfriend. Will you?”

 

For a long second, Grantaire doesn’t say anything. He just stares at Enjolras, his eyes so full of feeling Enjolras can’t read his expression. For the space of that silence, Enjolras is terrified that he was wrong. That he’s misread things, that Courfeyrac was having him on or just plain misinterpreted matters, that Grantaire doesn’t return his feelings.

 

At least Grantaire isn’t laughing at him.

 

“No pressure,” Enjolras says quietly. “I hope we can still be friends, even if you don’t want to-“

 

“I want to!” Grantaire half-shouts. “Oh my God, do I want to. Of course I want to, fuck, Enjolras, I love you.” He blushes like he’s regretting the words, like he wants to take them back, so Enjolras has to answer.

 

“I think I might love you too. So we should probably go out on a date or something then, yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Grantaire agrees, stunned and pleased and _happy._

* * *

 

 

Grantaire is frankly kind of struggling to believe this is real.

 

He’s Enjolras’ _boyfriend._

 

Enjolras is coming over in an hour to pick him up for dinner, and Grantaire is trying to get dressed in something that looks decent enough that he can be seen out in public next to the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen, because they’re going out to dinner. Together. On a date.

 

Their first date, becase now they’re dating.

 

Enjolras _loves_ him.

 

Grantaire has already pinched himself to make sure he’s not dreaming.

 

But he’s not. If this was a dream, he’d dream himself into someone better, but he’s still the same as he’s always been, blobby and ugly and lazy. The only thing that’s changed is that his farthest-fetched imagining, his wildest fantasy, is somehow real.

 

Enjolras wants to be with him.

 

He’d better make it worth his while.

 

Grantaire is about as nervous as he’s ever been. He forced himself to have a piece of fruit and some toast earlier, because if he doesn’t eat he’ll be too hungry at dinner (which he _can’t_ skip, or Enjolras will say something) and then he’ll look gross while he eats too fast. He has to make sure Enjolras doesn’t find out about the food thing, ever. He won’t approve, and Grantaire is already more trouble than he’s worth. Enjolras doesn’t need to be worrying about whatever Grantaire’s food issues are as well.

 

Now he’s trying to get dressed.

 

His favorite black button-down is too tight over his big belly. He knows it just looks ridiculous on him now, but he hasn’t been able to bear shopping for a while.

 

He doesn’t usually pay much attention to clothes. Frankly, ignoring the whole issue is so much easier. He’s going to feel shitty about himself no matter what, so why bother?

 

Well, now he wishes he’d bothered.

 

He ends up in the button-down, sucking in his stomach and tucking it into a pair of dark-wash jeans. Black is supposed to be slimming, right?

 

He tries to get his hair into some sort of order, and shaves, and then paces around a little bit, and then changes his shirt again into a green sweater that’s a size too big even for him. That’s better. And maybe the color will distract from his huge stomach.

 

He can hope, at least.

 

Enjolras is, of course, exactly on time.

 

“Hi,” he says, and his eyes are soft as he looks at Grantaire from his doorway. “You look great.”

 

Grantaire meets his eyes. “So do you.” He, unlike Enjolras, is telling the truth. Enjolras’ golden hair is tumbling down free past his shoulders, not up in its usual bun, and he’s wearing that red leather jacket that’s fitted through his broad shoulders and down to his narrow waist. His lips are red like he’s been biting them, and Grantaire is struck with a sudden mental image of Enjolras getting dressed to come over here, Enjolras worrying about whether or not he’ll make a good impression, and his throat goes dry.

 

“Thank you. For agreeing to go out with me tonight.”

 

Grantaire laughs a little. “I would follow you to the ends of the earth.” He tries to say it like it’s a joke, even though it really isn’t.

 

Enjolras smiles. “I’m only asking you to follow me to the end of the block, actually.”

 

“Well, that I can definitely do.”

 

Enjolras holds out his hand and, cautiously, Grantaire takes it. Enjolras’ hands are soft and smooth, and Grantaire is incredibly aware of the roughness of his own skin, but not as aware as he is of the smile on Enjolras’ face as he looks at Grantaire, looks at him like he’s worth it.

 

They walk to the café at the end of the block together, and Grantaire wonders how Enjolras knew this was his favorite.

 

“I asked Joly and Bossuet,” Enjolras admits. “Jehan told me that the jacket was a good idea—apparently you like it on me?”

 

“I may have waxed poetic about it to our Jehan once or twice, yes.”

 

“And Courfeyrac says  you have to promise not to be mad, but he was the one who convinced me to ask you out. I was really nervous, you know, and he might have given me a hint that you liked me in return.”

 

“Courf has nothing to worry about,” Grantaire says, breathless. “I’m so grateful to him. I’m so glad you did.”

 

“Why didn’t you say anything? I’m not very good with feelings, you know, I only realized I liked you a few weeks ago, and I couldn’t tell whether or not you were serious about—“

 

“Nerves, that’s all. I figured I was lucky to be your friend. I didn’t want to push it.”

 

Enjolras frowns a little. “Why would you say that?”

 

Fortunately, by then they’re at the café and Enjolras is distracted from Grantaire’s non-response by asking the server for their reserved table.

 

It’s a three-course menu. Grantaire’s given himself permission in advance to order anything he wants off it, because he doesn’t want to waste time worrying about food. He wants to pay attention to Enjolras.

 

And that turns out to be pretty easy, because Enjolras is fucking captivating. It isn’t even hard work to ignore the menu. Usually when he goes out to eat he stresses over what to order for a long time, trying to add up the calorie counts in his mind, but he just picks and then goes back to smiling at Enjolras.

 

Enjolras, who catches his eye and smiles back. He’s still holding Grantaire’s hand, over the table, and as their bottle of water arrives he raises it to his lips.

 

“No wine?” he asks Grantaire.

 

Grantaire shakes his head. “I’m trying to cut back.”

 

In return, he gets a blinding grin. Wow. Maybe it’ll be easier to keep up with all his positive-type life decisions, if Enjolras is going to care that much. “How is that going?” Enjolras asks, his voice concerned and gentle.

 

“Um. Okay. I’m not… not exactly quitting. Just, you know, after the fool I made of myself the other night-“

 

Enjolras winces. “No, that was my fault. I was too hard on you.”

 

“I drunkenly harassed you. It was terrible, and I’m sorry.”

 

“Apology accepted. Will you accept mine?”

 

“For what?”

 

“For all the times I’ve been unkind to you. For how long it took me to notice my feelings, and how much longer to notice yours.”

 

“Of course. Ange, there’s nothing to forgive.”

 

“Ange?”

 

Grantaire blushes. “Um. Y’know, like your name. And I know how much you hate ‘Apollo’ so-“

 

“You’re really sweet. You know that?”

 

“I am not,” Grantaire protests.

 

“Yes, you are. I have a very adorable boyfriend.”

 

“Oh my God, Enjolras, you are so embarassing,” Grantaire complains.

 

“And you are so cute.”

 

Grantaire puts his hands over his cheeks to hide his blushing, and Enjolras just grins at him, infuriatingly self-satisfied and amazingly happy. Happy because of Grantaire.

 

Grantaire can’t help but smile back.

 

* * *

 

 

Things change, and they don’t.

 

Enjolras tries to keep his temper more in check, when Grantaire is around.

 

He hasn’t snapped at him since that night, except once.

 

They’re in Enjolras’ apartment. They spend most of their evenings there now- for some reason Grantaire insists on keeping his own place. That conversation goes something like this:

 

“We’ve only been dating three weeks, Ange. I’m not moving in here, that’s crazy.”

 

“I just miss you when you’re not here.”

 

“You see me every day.”

 

“That’s not enough.”

 

Grantaire smiles at that, and Enjolras assumes he’s won until Grantaire decides he’s going home for the night. Every night.

 

This time, it’s still pretty early in the evening. Enjolras is terribly stressed about a paper he’s trying to write, and Grantaire is just lounging around, reading a novel.

 

He snuggles up to Enjolras, laying his head on his shoulder.

 

“Leave me alone, R, I’m busy,” Enjolras snaps. The harshness is mostly directed at himself, because he’s deeply tempted to forget the paper and just curl up with his boyfriend, but he can’t do that.

 

Grantaire flinches away.

 

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says at once. “I’m just stressed, I didn’t mean to-“

 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Grantaire offers.

 

Enjolras is reflexively about to say no, but his shoulders are tense and he’s starting to get a headache. “I- this is just a really big deal, you know? And I only have these ten pages to get Lamarque to respect me.”

 

“Lamarque loves you. Every professor you’ve ever had loves you.”

 

“But this is different. You know how hard it was to get into that class—he never takes undergrads. And they say he’s retiring soon so I may never get another chance to impress him, and he’s at the top of the field, and I only have ten pages to prove my worth to him.”

 

“Which just goes to show that he does like you already, since he made a special concession to let you in.”

 

“Which is why this essay has to be perfect!”

 

“You’re a great writer. It’s going to come out wonderfully.”

 

“I’ve been editing this thing constantly. I have no idea if it’s even tolerable.”

 

“When’s it due?”

 

“Week and a half.”

 

Grantaire shakes his head. “You are impossible, you know that? Here. Let me read it.”

 

“What? No!” Enjolras clutches his laptop protectively. “It’s not ready!”

 

“I’m not gonna give you a grade, Ange. Just that you’ve been staring at the same page for hours. I think this needs a fresh set of eyes.”

 

Enjolras frowns. “It’s not very good yet.”

 

“Well, as you know, I measure my boyfriends exclusively by their ability to write political science essays, so if this isn’t good I’m out of here.”

 

“Fine, fine, point made. Read it if you insist. It’ll give me an excuse to stop looking at it before I lose my mind.”

 

“Thanks.” He picks up Enjolras’ laptop and reads through at his usual frantic pace. Enjolras has no idea how he retains any of what he reads. Still, when he’s done, it’s clear that he’s remembered it all. “This is good. Very good. I’m impressed—and I didn’t think you could impress me any more, since I don’t know if you know this, but I’m already pretty fond of you.”

 

Enjolras can’t help but smile a little at that. “No, don’t just stroke my ego,” he says nonetheless. “Tell me what’s wrong with it.”

 

“Hmm. Well, a few things.”

 

Grantaire is patient and thorough as he goes through the essay. Normally Enjolras doesn’t let anyone but Combeferre proofread his work, but Grantaire picks up on things Combeferre wouldn’t, at least as far as word choice and language. He’s also effortlessly kind about it, barely noticing when Enjolras gets defensive as he’s wont to do.

 

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, and means it. “You’re amazing.”

 

Grantaire brushes off the praise. “I assume you want to go ahead and edit it now?”

 

“Is that okay? If you want-“

 

Grantaire smiles gently at him. “Yeah, I guess I could make you put that down and watch a movie with me or something, but you’d be miserable the whole time. How about this—I’ll make us both a cup of tea, you finish that up, and when you turn it in and get a marvelous grade and win the undying respect of Dr. Lamarque, you can take me out for a nice date.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“’course.” Grantaire stands and heads towards the kitchen. Enjolras puts a hand on his arm, gently, to stop him.

 

“No, really, R. I appreciate it a lot.”

 

“I’m happy I could help. You look at least a little less distraught now.”

 

“Was I that upset?”

 

“So tense I was at least a little worried you might snap in half.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“You can’t help it. It’s who you are.”

 

“I know, but I didn’t mean to push you away.”

 

Grantaire leans over, tentatively, and kisses him on the forehead. “I know who you are, Enjolras. I know how much you want from the world, how much you demand from yourself. I’m not going to get mad about that. I knew that coming in to this relationship. It’s one of the things I love about you—which also includes, oh yeah, absolutely everything.”

 

“I’m not perfect.”

 

“I know. Don’t think I expect that from you.” Grantaire heads off to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, and Enjolras turns back to his paper.

 

When he turns it in, and inevitably recieves an A and a lovely comment from Professor Lamarque calling him “one of the brightest students I’ve ever had,” he takes Grantaire out to the fanciest restaurant that he can afford to celebrate.

 

“I couldn’t have done that without you,” he assures Grantaire seriously. Grantaire laughs it off, as he always does, but Enjolras means every word.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire is letting himself be happy.

 

He doesn’t know when he’s ever felt quite this carefree before.

 

It won’t last forever, of course it won’t, but things with Enjolras are perfect. He knows it’s going to hurt when it ends—he expects even his pessimism can’t come up with quite how badly, but he can imagine it’s going to be fairly awful—but he isn’t dwelling on that. Really, and in a way most unlike himself, he’s looking on the brightside.

 

He can’t worry about things ending. They haven’t yet, after all, and maybe they won’t for a while. While things are good, he’s going to enjoy every second he can get. He’s going to absolutely soak up every day he gets to spend with Enjolras, being Enjolras’ boyfriend, being allowed to touch him and be in his space and see him when he’s vulnerale.

 

Enjolras is more physical than he’d expected. He knew, or at least suspected, before they started dating that Enjolras didn’t exactly have a lot of experience. Even with their friends, he’s reserved—he shakes hands when he meets people, all part of his exquisite manners, but he’s never one to hug or anything like that.

 

Yet when he’s alone with Grantaire, he’s very tactile. They’re almost always holding hands when they’re on their dates. When they stay in for evenings together, they usually end up watching a movie snuggled up on the couch. Sometimes Enjolras even sits on Grantaire’s lap. They kiss hello and goodbye and pretty often in between.

 

It hasn’t gone beyond that, though.

 

Enjolras is so inexperienced, and Grantaire doesn’t want to pressure him.

 

More than that, he doesn’t want to be rejected.

 

He’ll never completely be over the first time it happened. He’s fairly sure of that. He knows it’s pathetic to still be so hung up on something that happened so many years ago, but he probably always will be.

 

He wants Enjolras to feel comfortable, and completely. There’s no way of knowing if that’s possible other than by letting him take the lead.

 

Grantaire has, probably unsurprisingly, spent an awful lot of time jerking off since he and Enjolras started dating. Admittedly, even beforehand most of his fantasies were about the other man, but now they spend so much more time together that things have become much more real.

 

Now he knows the sweet little noises Enjolras makes when he’s about to fall asleep, and the way the weight of his head feels on Grantaire’s shoulder, and the feel of his fingers, and the smell of his hair.

 

If Enjolras was amazing, unapproachable, awe-inspiring from a distance, up close he’s everything he was before and more, too. More because he has doubts and fears. More because he so obviously doesn’t know what he’s doing in a relationship. More because he’s trying so hard to be conscious, to be kind, and Grantaire never realized the other side of his temper before this.

 

Grantaire is as completely in his thrall as ever.

 

Honestly, maybe part of the reason he doesn’t bring up sex is because he’s a little bit frightened. He’s been a successful lover in the past, at least in that way, but none of his past relationships have compared to this. He doesn’t want anything to go wrong.

 

All he wants is to keep earning that sweet, secret smile from Enjolras, every once in a while, and with it the knowledge that, at least for now, he’s good enough.

 

And not just that.

 

He’s loved, and by the person he never thought he’d get close to, by the man he always imagined was completely unattainable.

 

Grantaire has been told he’s too much in so many ways, by so many people. Too much body, too much drinking, too many stupid sarcastic comments. His love has also been too much. He doesn’t know how to give it any other way than completely.

 

Luckily, Enjolras has never done anything halfway. He meets Grantaire in the middle—all the passion, all the devotion, all the care.

 

Grantaire’s never had his feelings completely reciprocated before, not by anyone, and it’s strange, but it’s wonderful.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras thinks things have been going well, all things considered. Things like the fact that Grantaire is alarmingly insecure, and Enjolras has never been in a relationship before, and in the past they’ve argued more often than not.

 

Well, Enjolras has argued. Grantaire has sat there and taken it, and then sometimes quietly slipped away and sometimes managed to make Enjolras feel quite bad about himself with a few well-placed words.

 

But now Grantaire uses that wit to make him laugh. Now they’re together more often than they’re apart.

 

Grantaire hasn’t been drinking at all, which means he’s less likely to get maudlin and less likely to ramble at meetings. Mostly he sits in the back and chats with Joly and Bossuet and makes an occasional pointed criticism. As little attention as he seems to be paying, he’s always able to leap right into the conversation as though he’s been paying rapt attention. He’s so smart it drives Enjolras crazy.

 

He’s talking during a meeting, looking over at Grantaire for his reaction. Grantaire happens to be stretching, his shirt riding up to show a peek of his round stomach, and Enjolras actually loses track of what he’s supposed to be saying until Combeferre kicks him a little under the table.

 

“I’m losing it,” he says to Courfeyrac later. “This will actually be the death of me. All I think about is Grantaire! His hands, his voice, his fucking _smile-_ “

 

“I’m so glad I betrayed my friend’s confidence,” Courfeyrac muses aloud. “This is really entertaining.”

 

“I’m crazy about him and I’ve never been so happy before. I don’t know what to do!”

 

Courfeyrac just laughs at him, so Enjolras pouts. Of course, Grantaire notices, and comes over to cheer him up with a little kiss. After that, the meeting part of the meeting is kind of a lost cause. He gives up and lets their friends dissolve into chatter—Courfeyrac and Combeferre start arguing loudly, Bahorel and Feuilly are gossipping about women, Joly and Bossuet engaged in a frankly terrible escalating series of puns.

 

Enjolras is quiet, as he so often is in this type of situation. He just watches, happy to observe his friends enjoying each other’s company, and happiest of all to see Grantaire’s face lit up with a genuine smile as he and Marius discuss some finer point of Spanish translation.

 

When they’re walking home after the meeting, Enjolras hesitates. “Grantaire?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Would you like to stay over my place tonight?”

 

Grantaire swallows. “Is this—is this a—“

 

“I’d like to make love to you, yes. If you’re amenable.” Enjolras tries to read Grantaire’s face. It’s harder than he would have thought.

 

“Ange, you can’t just _say_ shit like that.”

 

“I can say whatever I’d like. Free speech. An issue I care deeply about.” Grantaire at least smiles a little at the joke. Enjolras squeezes his hand. “Grantaire, there’s no pressure. If you don’t want to, we won’t. Simple as that.”

 

“If I don’t- Of course I want to!”

 

Grantaire still looks a little pale, though. Enjolras doesn’t like that. “Are you sure?”

 

“Very, very sure.”

 

“Because the last thing I would want is to pressure you. You know that, right?”

 

Grantaire looks exasparated now, which is better than faint. “I promise, I want this. I want you. Pretty much more than most things in life.”

 

“And tonight-“

 

“Well, I was going to go to dance, but I think I’ve just acquired much more interesting plans.”

 

Enjolras frowns. “If you want to go-“

 

“I would much rather be with you.”

 

And his voice is so gentle and so sincere that Enjolras’ worry melts away.

 

They make it to Enjolras’ apartment. Enjolras kisses Grantaire, deeply, but Grantaire stops him from going any further. “Ange, have you ever done this before?”

 

“No,” Enjolras admits. “Is it that obvious?”

 

“I just know you haven’t dated a lot before. I assumed. And I just want to make sure everything is good for you.”

 

“Thank you. I trust you, R.”

 

Grantaire leans in for another soft kiss. “We don’t have to do everything tonight. We have time.”

 

“I know. What do you want?”

 

Grantaire smiles. “I like just about anything. I figured we could stick with handjobs, or maybe I could suck you off-“

 

“And what about you?”

 

“No pressure, okay? I’d be happy to make you happy, and I know how to get myself off.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say to that. “I want you. I didn’t ask for this because I want you to pleasure me while I sit back. I want us to be together. Like this. Can that happen?”

  
“If it’s what you want.”

 

“I want,” Enjolras says. “I didn’t even know I could want like this before I met you. Fuck, I’ve been getting distracted in the middle of my lectures, thinking about this, thinking about your hands, your lips-“

 

Grantaire smirks at him. He traces a calloused fingertip across Enjolras’ cheek and the other man trembles. Grantaire’s rough finger moves, ever-so-gently, to sit on his lip for a second, feeling the warmth of Enjolras’ breath, before Grantaire replaces it with his lips, kissing Enjolras with sudden fierceness as those strong hands reach down to grip his ass and squeeze.

 

Enjolras moans, not prepared for the unrush of touch, of feeling. “R, what-“

 

“Trust me, all right?”

 

Grantaire gets a look on his face after he’s said that, so Enjolras rushes to reassure him. “I do. I love you.”

 

He leans in and kisses Enjolras again, this time lightly nipping at his lower lip. Enjolras can feel Grantaire smile against his mouth as Enjolras groans, and then Grantaire does it again, and again, until Enjolras’ lips have fallen slack and open and Grantaire is exploring his mouth eagerly with his tongue.

 

One of Grantaire’s hands stays on his ass, while the other reaches up to lace through his hair, tugging gently.

 

“Do you want to move to your bed?” Grantaire murmurs in his ear.

 

“Yeah,” Enjolras agrees, half-afraid his legs are about to give out on him.

 

“You’re doing great, ange. Let me know if anything gets to be too much, and we can take things as slow as you want to.”

 

Grantaire’s voice is slow and measured and it is reassuring, but Enjolras doesn’t want to be reassured. He wants to be made love to, and he says as much.

 

Then he pulls Grantaire along behind him as they make their way to bed. He falls onto his back, pulling Grantaire on top of him, and Grantaire smiles down at him as he pulls Enjolras’ shirt off. His eyes are shining bright as he looks down at Enjolras, and Enjolras thinks to himself that Grantaire must be the most beautiful man in the whole world.

 

Oh, he knows, consciously, that other people don’t see his boyfriend that way. He’s still not sure why, though.

 

His hands go to the hem of Grantaire’s shirt, wanting to see the stomach that had so tempted him earlier, now that they’re in private and he can appreciate it properly. He starts to raise it up.

 

Grantaire’s hands leave Enjolras’ hair and catch Enjolras’.

 

“Can we—can we just not?” he asks, and his voice is quiet in a way that makes Enjolras’ stomach turn.

 

“Have I- am I pressuring you? Are you-“

 

“No! No, Enjolras, we’re fine. We’re good. I just don’t want to, okay?”

 

“Of course.” Enjolras meets his eyes, hoping to convey how deeply sincere he is. “We can just cuddle, if that’s what you want. Or-“

 

“I stil want to- I mean, I just don’t want to take my shirt off. Is that okay?”

 

Enjolras can’t help but frown a little. “Why not?”

 

“I just don’t want to.”

 

“But why-“

 

“I don’t want to. That’s all.” Grantaire has a set look to his jaw, like he’s going to just keep repeating that forever if he has to, and Enjolras sighs.

 

“All right. Of course. You sure you won’t tell me why?’

 

“Really sure. I don’t want to have a conversation, I want to get you off. Please.”

 

Enjolras shivers a little at that, almost involuntarily, and Grantaire notices, of course.

 

“Please,” he repeats, his voice going low and husky. “Please, ange, let me make you come. Let me see how beautiful you look when you’re out of your mind with pleasure. Please let me-“

 

“You don’t have to-“

 

“Beg? Oh, but you like it when I do, don’t you?” Grantaire asks, and his hands are on Enjolras again and Enjolras can’t remember why he was so worried about the fucking shirt anyway. Grantaire clearly knows exactly what he’s doing here. “What else do you like, I wonder?”

 

“I don’t… I don’t even know, R, _oh-_ “

 

Grantaire is trailing his tongue across Enjolras’ nipple, but he pauses to smirk up at him. “You’re sensitive, huh?”

 

“I- shit, shit, _fuck-_ I guess so-“

 

“Oh, dirty mouth,” Grantaire comments, then takes Enjolras’ nipple between his teeth, gently, before sucking hard to ease away the sting. “I like it. A lot.” He reaches up for a tender kiss to Enjolras’ lips. “I like you a lot.”

 

“I really fucking like you too, R, what are we doing-“

 

“Easy. I’m helping you figure out what you like.” Grantaire kisses a surprisingly sensitive spot right under Enjolras’ ear. “Do you like me taking over like this, or would you want to be more in control? Or neither, I get that might be offensive to your republican sensibilities or something.”

 

Enjolras pictures their positions reversed, pictures his own weight on top of Grantaire, the other man writhing underneath him, pictures his hands closing around Grantaire’s wrists to hold him down—“I, uh, I think I’d like to be more in control. If that’s okay.”

 

“Of course you would,” Grantaire says, smiling. “Always the leader.”

 

“I’m not married to the—oh, shit, your mouth, I can’t fucking think, R-“ because Grantaire’s lips have closed around Enjolras’ ear, kissing and licking and carefully biting—“What was I saying? Oh. Right. Clearly, I like this too. I’d be happy to do this if you’re more—fucking _hell_ —more comfortable on top, literally and figuratively speaking.”

 

“But alone at night, when you’re lying in this bed, your eyes closed, stroking your cock—“ Grantaire paints the picture with such relish, like he’s thought of it many times.

 

“I think about taking you apart. About having you. About—“

 

“About hurting me?” Grantaire says. “A little, sometimes? Because I like that. You could bite me, if you want. I would like that.”

 

Enjolras closes his eyes as Grantaire’s words wash over him. “You’re really okay with that?”

 

“Oh, you like that idea, do you?” Grantaire smirks, but he also looks decidedly relieved. “And you like the begging—“

 

“I like that you want me. I like knowing that you like this.” Enjolras presses his lips, whisper-soft, against Grantaire’s, and Grantaire smiles and deepens the kiss. Enjolras bites his lower lip, surprised by high, soft noise Grantaire lets out, less surprised when Grantaire’s tongue slides into his mouth, exploring and eager.

 

Enjolras reaches up, playfully grabbing Grantaire’s ass. Grantaire follows the movement, though, and suddenly it’s not joking at all—Grantaire is purposely, slowly rutting down, his hips grinding against Enjolras’.

 

The first contact of their still-clothed erections is shockingly good. Enjolras has never felt anything like this, not ever before.

 

He stretches upward and lets his teeth graze across Grantaire’s neck. He’s careful at first, not wanting to hurt him too much. The whine that escapes from Grantaire’s lips, though, is more than enough to put his concerns to rest.

 

Enjolras smiles up at him, and then, fisting his hand in the back of Grantaire’s shirt, tips his hips up for leverage and rolls the two of them over, landing squarely on top of his lover. Of course, Grantaire’s substantially heavier weight means Enjolras can only manhandle him so much—the rest is his own initiative—but it seems to be enough for Grantaire, who closes his eyes and sighs, tipping his head back in a posture of relaxation or submission or some combination of the two.

 

His hips are still thrusting upwards, towards the warmth of Enjolras’ body, and as Enjolras bites down his neck he imitates Grantaire’s actions from earlier, thrusting down against him.

 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire moans, and a jolt of want shoots through Enjolras’ body at how positively filthy his name sounds on Grantaire’s lips. He badly wants to make him say it again.

 

So he lets his hand slide between their bodies, tracing the outline of Grantaire’s hard cock through his jeans.

 

“Can I?” he asks, not wanting to distract from the mood yet again, and Grantaire nods eagerly. He undoes Grantaire’s pants and pulls his erection out. It’s surprisingly warm in his hand, flushed red with a white drop of precome leaking from the tip.

 

Enjolras has never touched another man like this before, and he’s surprised at how beautiful Grantaire’s nakedness is. He’s always thought, a little bit, that this would feel dirty or wrong but it’s just perfect, Grantaire in his hand, hard and wanting and his.

 

Grantaire’s hands are on his belt at once, undoing it so that Enjolras, too, is exposed. Unlike Grantaire, Enjolras kicks his undone pants off, leaving himself naked from the waist down. Grantaire is tentative at first, hesitating to touch him, but Enjolras presses gentle kisses along his throat and strokes steadily at his cock and eventually Grantaire’s grip gets a little more sure, some of his confidence returning.

 

Still, he can’t seem to meet Enjolras’ eyes. Grantaire turns his face to the side as they stroke each other. 

 

“No,” Enjolras says. “Look at me.”

 

He doesn’t know where he gets the confidence to give the command, but  somehow he does. Grantaire turns slowly, and eventually looks up through his long lashes to meet Enjolras’ eyes. He’s blushing, a crimson glow on his tan skin. It’s probably partially the natural reaction of arousal, but he’s also decidedly embarassed.

 

“You are so gorgeous,” Enjolras says, and leans in to kiss him hard before Grantaire can say anything in response.

 

They don’t talk anymore after that. It’s just Grantaire’s hand on his cock, stroking him off, and his hips rutting into Grantaire’s hand and his own hand around Grantaire, and their lips meeting and their teeth clashing and a blur of movement and pleasure, exploration and taking.

 

Grantaire is still looking at Enjolras, but the expression on his face has faded from nervousness to a simple happiness, and Enjolras thinks he could do this forever. He thinks of all the things he hasn’t done yet, all the ways Grantaire can teach him about this, all the beautiful ways he can learn his lover’s body, and his body tenses up as he starts to come.

 

He can’t help the moan that escapes his lips- something he’s always been insecure about, the high pitch of his own voice- but Grantaire doesn’t seem to mind, from the way he surges up to kiss him, keeping up the steady motion of his hand as Enjolras thrusts blindly. Their lips meet in a messy tangle, the only thing grounding Enjolras as pleasure overtakes him.

 

When he comes back to himself, he realizes he’s let go of Grantaire, who is now idly stroking himself off.

 

“Sorry,” he says. “I can-“

 

Grantaire grins at him. “Don’t worry about it, Apollo. Watching you come apart like that- being the reason you’re that happy- that’s what I want.”

 

“Still,” Enjolras says, rolling onto the bed so he’s lying next to Grantaire rather than propped on top of him. “Let me.”

 

Grantaire lets him, seeming a little tentative about being the sole focus of pleasure. Enjolras keeps one hand around his waist as the other circles his cock.

 

“Is that good?”

 

“Yeah,” Grantaire sighs, closing his eyes and turning his face towards Enjolras.

 

“Because it’s been amazing for me. I never imagined it could be this good.”

 

It must be good for Grantaire, too, because it doesn’t take long after that for him to come- and as he does, he sighs Enjolras’ name again in that perfect, dirty way.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Enjolras can never know.

 

That’s all there is to it.

 

He’ll keep his clothes on during sex and he’ll purge only in secret and he’ll make sure Enjolras never finds out how totally messed up Grantaire is.

 

He didn’t sign up for that, after all. He wanted fun, not a whole new set of problems.

 

It’s not that he’s unhappy. Quite the opposite—he can’t remember ever being so happy.

 

Someone actually calls them a _cute couple._ Joly whispers something in Bossuet’s ear during a meeting.

 

“Talking dirty?” Courfeyrac interjects, loudly.

 

“No,” Bossuet blushes, so of course everyone assumes Courfeyrac was right.

 

“I was just saying how cute those two are,” Joly corrects, pointing over at Enjolras and Grantaire.

 

Admittedly, they have squished their chairs together so that they can hold hands more effectively during the meeting, which has sort of turned into Enjolras half-sprawling across Grantaire’s lap, and Grantaire keeps getting distracted and kissing Enjolras on the top of his head, and then Enjolras will lean back for a proper kiss.

 

A pink flush spreads over Enjolras’ marble skin at Joly’s words, but he doesn’t say anything in response.

 

Later, Grantaire takes him aside. “Did I embarrass you earlier?”

 

“What?”

 

“Tonight. Was I too touchy-feely? Should I have given you more space?”

 

“Of course not.” Enjolras frowns a little, a slight downward tilt of his sculpted lips. “I don’t mind. I actually- I like the, uh, the cuddling.”

 

Grantaire can’t help but laugh a little. It’s just so unexpected. “Well, Apollo, I will just have to cuddle you thoroughly at every opportunity.”

 

“Why don’t you spend the night tonight? We could do just that.”

 

“I was just over last night.”

 

Enjolras looks at him. Grantaire feels a little like a specimen under a microscope, with those bright blue eyes searching his face. “Is that- are we moving too fast?”

 

“No. No, I just-“

 

“What?”

 

“I just don’t want you to get sick of me.”

 

Enjolras’ mouth turns up in a smile. “That’s really unlikely to happen.”

 

“Sure.” Grantaire doesn’t want to say anything. This sort of conversation is such a puzzle for him. He knows if he says too much, reveals too much, the very fact of how insecure he is could be the thing that ends it. He doesn’t want to cling too hard or he might end up pushing Enjolras away. On the other hand…

 

On the other hand, it’s so hard to keep all of this in. Grantaire knows he deserves it, deserves the way he feels about himself, but that doesn’t make it any easier to live with. Sharing it would make it better, and if there’s one person he wants to share with, it’s Enjolras. Because for some reason, his useless brain has decided that would make things better, when really it would only make everything worse.

 

He has to keep it in. This is his own fight to fight—Enjolras has plenty of his own.

 

“You don’t believe me.”

 

Another chance, another opening. Another way Grantaire could say something. He feels like he’s being intentionally tempted, like it’s one of the days he’s fasting and Jehan brings muffins to the meeting or something. And as always, he wants to prove he can be strong, even though the fact of being so tempted by something so simple probably only proves just how weak and pathetic he really is.

 

“I always believe you, Enjolras. Against my better judgment, or not.” That’s good. He’s happy with his reply- not none of the truth, but not too much of it either.

 

Enjolras looks at him, eyes still full of concern, but when Grantaire doesn’t say anything else, he lets it go.

 

* * *

 

The triumvirate meets for their weekly debrief.

 

The subject this time, however, is not a campaign or a meeting, but Enjolras’ love life.

 

“How are things with Grantaire?”

 

Enjolras laughs. “You couldn’t even wait to order your coffee before that?”

 

“No,” Courfeyrac says, smiling. “I mean, I got you two together, basically-“

 

“I’m quite looking forward to you mentioning that every half-hour for the rest of our lives,” Enjolras says.

 

“I’m just relieved Grantaire wasn’t pissed.”

 

Combeferre nods. “We did swear a fairly solemn oath.”

 

“Why?” Enjolras asks. “Is there a reason he was so hesitant to let anyone find out?”

 

The other two hesitate, meeting each other’s eyes. Enjolras recognizes the gesture—they’ve been doing it for years, whenever they suspect they know better about his own life than he does—and sighs.

 

“The truth, please. I can handle it.”

 

“Okay. I’m saying this as a friend. With love-“ Courfeyrac begins.

 

“Just be honest. I can handle it. And I want to get the truth… I want to have your advice. Because I really want to get this right, and you may know that this isn’t exactly my element.”

 

“Nor mine,” Combeferre points out.

 

“True, but you have one whole long-term successful relationship, and Courfeyrac is an expert.”

 

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac says with a grin.

 

“So tell me. What is it about me that Grantaire would be afraid for me to know about his feelings?”

 

Enjolras is certainly a little nervous to hear the answer. He knows he likely won’t be proud of whatever he hears about himself, and he knows Combeferre is unlikely to pull any punches.

 

“You know you haven’t exactly been patient with him in the past,” Combeferre says.

 

“And he’s not exactly a self-secure person. He was afraid of being mocked. Or that you would be disgusted.”

 

“Disgusted?” Enjolras repeats, feeling stupid—something he’s not really accustomed to.

 

 “There’s a difference in- I mean, you have noticed that you’re very attractive, right?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“And that Grantaire is-“

 

“Less so,” Combeferre says, diplomatically. “By conventional standards.”

 

Enjolras pays little enough attention to that.

 

“He’s been in love with you for a long time,” Courfeyrac adds. “I think… I think he really didn’t expect this to ever happen.”

 

“The other day he said he was afraid I would get tired of him,” Enjolras blurts. It feels like maybe he shouldn’t share it- like it’s too personal to pass on. Still, he needs advice.

 

“He’s put you up on a pedestal,” Combeferre says, quite simply. “He loves you, but he also admires you. It’s that which makes it hard for him to believe that this is real.”

 

“It would also- he was used to looking up to you from afar. I think he’s afraid of what could happen if you’re together for a while and then you end things.”

 

“It’s not like—it’s not like I’m going to say it can’t happen,” Enjolras says. “People change, relationships end, and I’ve never- I’ve never done anything like this before, I don’t know how people even- so I’m not going to make any promises I can’t keep. But I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

 

“I know that,” Combeferre says. “But I think Grantaire- he’s been careful to keep some things to himself. Like, for instance, the fact that he’s been in love with you since practically the moment he saw you.”

 

“That’s why I told you to be the one to ask him out. He feels… he feels like he’s at a lot of risk to get hurt here. To have his heart broken. So if you want him to open up—you may have to do it first.” Courfeyrac smiles. “I know you’re just trying to do the right thing, Enjolras. Just—he’d give you just about anything. Don’t forget that.”

 

“I won’t,” Enjolras says. “Is… is it always this hard?”

 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac look at each other. “Well,” Combeferre says, “Every relationship has different concerns. For us, it was the fear that we couldn’t start dating without ruining our friendship, or that we might be mistaking our platonic feelings for each other for romantic ones, and that it would be impossible to go back to what we had before. So it’s not always hard in the same way, but it’s never easy.”

 

“It’s worth it, though,” Courfeyrac says.

 

Enjolras thinks about Grantaire’s surprised smile and little blush as Enjolras had kissed him on the way out the door this morning, and he grins. “Yeah. It is.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Two months later and Grantaire is starting to accept that this is real.

 

Enjolras is almost unbelievably good to him—both because it seems out of character for Enjolras, untouchable marble lover of liberty and not much else, to be such a devoted boyfriend, and for Grantaire, who has never been treated like this before, to be so cared for.

 

It’s almost too good to be true, but it’s real.

 

They wake up together more often than not. Grantaire is even considering letting Enjolras talk him into any number of things that at the beginning he never would have accepted. Like moving in together, or taking his shirt off during sex. Enjolras has talked him out of his pants as long as the lights are off, but his shirt stays on, over his too-big stomach. And he needs his crappy little studio, needs somewhere to hide out when he’s too anxious to be around people, needs a bathroom where no one can hear him puke.

 

He’s revolted with himself just at the thought, the memory of how disgusting and fucked-up he is, but it’s still true.

 

He’s been purging less and less since they got together, but it’s not like he’s stopped. He has to do it less, though. He can’t afford to throw up when Enjolras is around, when he might overhear or smell it on Grantaire’s breath. He can’t let Enjolras find out what a mess he is.

 

For whatever reason, Enjolras is giving him a chance, but he can’t mess it all up. He can’t throw it away.

 

He just skips meals more and more now. That’s safer. It’s not like he can afford to do nothing. He’d only get fatter and grosser and Enjolras would leave him.

 

He has to be careful, that’s all. Balance not eating and not getting caught, now that for some strange reason someone cares. That’s how he thought at first.

 

Except that in two months Enjolras hasn’t noticed.

 

And he’s been slipping up.

 

He made himself throw up in Enjolras’ bathroom the other day, after they had a nice dinner in his kitchen. Enjolras didn’t seem to have so much as looked up from doing the dishes, and he didn’t say anything. He also didn’t say anything when Grantaire insisted on only having black coffee for breakfast.

 

So maybe he hasn’t noticed. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

 

Maybe it doesn’t matter.

 

It’s not like Grantaire has an eating disorder, or anything. He needs to lose weight. Everyone’s always told him that, from his parents to his gym teachers in elementary school to his doctors. Sometimes he goes a little too far but he’s always been extreme. He’s not getting skinny, that’s for sure, and so it’s not really a problem.

 

That’s what he tells himself. That’s what he’s been telling himself for years, and he almost believes it.

 

Until this one day.

 

Maybe it’s because the day starts off so well.

 

He wakes up next to Enjolras, his lover’s beautiful golden hair fanned out around his face. He makes a pot of tea and takes time to enjoy a cup while he makes coffee for Enjolras and lays out some bread and jam for his love to have for breakfast. The lie, that he’s already eaten, is easy to give, and the kiss Enjolras gives him as a thank-you for breakfast is sweeter than anything.

 

Enjolras makes the time to walk him to work—some excuse about how he needs exercise to stimulate his mind, but Grantaire suspects it’s just as much because he doesn’t want the lazy morning to end. He continues on to the café to get some writing done, while Grantaire makes pleasant chat with a few English tourists and then sells several books to a shy university girl who hides behind her long her but smiles happily at him as she discovers some of the older books he has for sale.

 

There’s a meeting tonight, and after that Bossuet and Joly are having a movie night at their apartment. Grantaire’s been lookng forward to it all week.

 

So maybe it’s that.

 

Or maybe it’s the sheer terror of what happens. Around four in the afternoon, he starts to feel a little dizzy, standing out in the sun of summertime Paris without having eaten anything. He decides a quick walk by the river is just what he needs to clear his head and locks up his cases. His head is spinning a bit as he descends the stairs towards the Seine, but it’s nothing.

 

He’s just going to sit for a moment, right by the water where it’s cooler. Just for a moment.

 

The next thing he knows, he’s being shaken awake by a white-haired gentleman, whose daughter stands off to the side, looking dimly terrified.

 

“Are you all right?”

 

Grantaire laughs it off. “Fine. I’m all right. Just a bit hot out.”

 

“Here,” the man says, offering him a bottle of juice. “Drink this.”

 

Grantaire’s stomach twists. He can feel his heart pounding at the thought, at the glimpse of the black letters on the side of the bottle, **240 kcal.** “Thank you very much, but I’m all right.”

 

“Monsieur-“

 

“Thank you,” Grantaire repeats, feeling guilty as he turns and walks away from the two.

 

“Wait!” the girl says. Her father shoots her a look, but she continues. She hands him the juice. “You don’t have to. Just- please take it.”

 

Grantaire stares at her, but she’s so earnest and kind, he can’t say no. “Thank you.”

 

She  pitches her voice lower, so her father and the passerby can’t hear. “When was the last time you ate?”

 

“Dinner,” Grantaire says, before he can figure out to lie or even say that it’s none of her business.

 

She gently touches his arm. “Are you talking to anyone about this?”

 

Grantaire shakes his head. “I’m fine. Really, it’s not a big deal.”

 

She doesn’t say anything to that, just gives him a look. Then, “Here.” She hands him a business card and then smiles. “If you decide you need to talk, let me know. I can help you find someone.”

 

Grantaire glances down at it. The card is engraved in a pretty cursive, with a name (presumably the girl’s), and a phone number. “Euphrasie Fauchelevant. That’s pretty.”

 

“My friends call me Cosette. Seriously, don’t hesitate. I’m in school to be a therapist. I can help set an appointment up for you with someone.”

 

“Thank you.” He puts the card in his pocket, prepared to forget all about it.

 

But maybe it’s her kindness, or her soft smile as he walks away.

 

Or maybe it’s what happens with Enjolras that evening.

 

He meets Enjolras at the Musain.

 

“Oh, no, I’ve already eaten,” he lies when Enjolras suggests dinner, and the lie feels heavy in his mouth.

 

He loves Enjolras. He doesn’t want to lie to him.

 

He wants to feel vibrant and alive again, not this leaden heaviness in all his limbs. He wants to be able to take a meal with his friends without panic. He wants to let himself really experience the happiness he’s found, not hide away from it.

 

He won’t call a stranger. That would never be his way. But if there’s one way Grantaire knows himself to be blessed, it’s in his friends.

 

And in Enjolras.

 

“Is something the matter, love?” Enjolras asks, looking at Grantaire with an endearing furrow between his brows.

 

Grantaire leans over to kiss it away, unable now to ignore the fact that even so slight a movement sends his head spinning. “I’m fine, as long as I have you.”

 

He expects that to be the end of the conversation, but it’s not. Instead, Enjolras turns to look at him. “Are you worrying about that again?”

 

“What?”

 

“You and me. I know you worry that I don’t want this as much as you do.”

 

Panic washes over him. Enjolras wasn’t supposed to know about any of that. He was supposed to be hiding all of those insecurities. “I- Enjolras-“

 

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

 

“I’d rather not,” Grantaire says, panic worsening, making his throat close up, his stomach churn.

 

“I just want you to know I’m here for you if there’s anything you need. I love you, Grantaire, and I want you to be happy.”

 

Enjolras is looking at him so intently, his blue eyes sure and steady and full of tenderness and Grantaire can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t bear that because he doesn’t deserve it.

 

“I think I need to go,” Grantaire chokes out, and walks out the door. Thank God, Enjolras doesn’t follow him.

 

He doesn’t go home. He’s self-aware enough to know that if he went home he’d just drink himself to sleep and that could really injure him. He doesn’t want to put that kind of burden on anyone.

 

Instead he goes to Jehan’s beautiful apartment in the Marais. He gets a dirty look from the concierge as he asks to be let in, but Jehan is only too thrilled to buzz him in.

 

He loves Jehan’s apartment. It’s so cozy, every surface exploding with mis-matched rugs and pillows and blankets. It’s the perfect place to be sad, and he knows Jehan, like him, spends some time doing just that.

 

He accepts a mug of tea and curls up on his favorite overstuffed blue leather sofa, beneath a  hideous yellow and orange comforter.

 

Enjolras is going to be so mad at him.

 

He’s run out on their date and he’s let Enjolras down and he’s so fucking tired.

 

“Talk to me,” Jehan says, and Grantaire shakes his head.

 

“I can’t.”

 

Jehan wraps an arm around his shoulder, holding him. “All right.”

 

Grantaire wants to cry again, but he won’t. That would only hurt his friend, and there’s no reason for that. He’s been selfish enough.

 

What if Enjolras decides he’s had enough? What if he ends things because of Grantaire’s stupid panic attack? Because Grantaire couldn’t control himself?

 

“Whenever you’re ready,” Jehan says, their voice low and comforting, and Grantaire takes a deep breath.

 

“I think… I think I have a problem,” he says.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“With food,” Grantaire blurts. “I have- I haven’t eaten today. I couldn’t. And I passed out by the river. And sometimes when I get anxious I make myself throw up. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I got mad at Enjolras because he asked but I ran away and now he’s going to be furious unless I can explain and I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I don’t know-“

 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Jehan sighs. “Okay. Take a deep breath with me, all right?”

 

Grantaire, feeling distinctly stupid, takes Jehan’s hands and follows their lead in breathing in and out, in and out, until he’s not hyperventilating quite so much, until he feels a little less like his heart is going to beat out of his chest.

 

“That’s great. You’re doing really well. I’m so proud of you for coming to me with this, darling, it’s really brave. I know it must be hard but we all love you so much and it’s  going to get better, it is, I’m going to do anything I can do to help and so is Enjolras, I know-“

 

At the sound of his boyfriend’s name, Grantaire’s chest tightens up again. “No, I don’t, I can’t tell him. He can’t find out, Jehan, please, promise me you won’t tell him.”

 

“Okay. Okay, first of all, I won’t tell anyone you don’t want to know, of course. I promise, I would never tell anyone. Do you believe me?”

 

Grantaire nods.

 

“Good. But that said, what’s so frightening about the idea of Enjolras finding out? Can you tell me?”

 

Grantaire can barely get the words out. Even thinking of it feels so heavy and so huge that he’s nauseous, that he’s choking at the thought. “I’m scared he won’t believe me.”

 

“What?”

 

“Well, look at me,” Grantaire says, his voice full of bitterness. “I don’t exactly look like I’m starving.”

 

“Anyone can have problems with-“

 

“Oh, I know they say that, I know that’s what _Enjolras_ would say, but would he really believe it?”

 

“Have you ever known Enjolras to say something he didn’t believe in one hundred percent?”

 

Grantaire can’t argue with that. He can, however, argue with lots of other things. “Besides, he’s busy enough as it is. He doesn’t need to be worrying about me. I’m supposed to be his boyfriend, not another cause. Not a problem for him to sweep down on his high horse and fix and then ride off to the next thing.”

 

“So why did you come here?”

 

“I-“ Grantaire takes a breath. “I was worried. After fainting. I wanted- I wanted someone to keep an eye on me. Make sure I was, I don’t know, safe. I wouldn’t want to put any of you through-“

 

“You trust me to believe you, then?”

 

“Maybe it was stupid to come,” Grantaire mumbles.

 

“No, I’m sorry, R. Listen. I can stop pushing if you want. We don’t have to talk about all this right now. I just- I want to know what I can do to help. It seems like you’re mostly upset about Enjolras’ reaction, or possible reaction, and I was trying to talk you through that- but if you’d rather, we can not do that now. If you’d rather, we can not do that ever. We can just sit there and you can drink some tea and if you’d like I’ll make you something to eat, but I know that’s probably too much pressure on you for right now, so don’t worry about that, okay? It’s whatever you want.”

 

“I just- I want this to not be a problem,” Grantaire sighs. “I want to be the kind of person Enjolras deserves.”

 

“What would that be?”

 

“Someone as beautiful as he is,” Grantaire mumbles.

 

“Let me know if I’m pushing too much,” Jehan warns, and then, “Do you think that matters so much to him? To me, it really seems like that’s not something that would be a priority for him. I could be wrong, though.”

 

“No, I don’t- it’s not because of him that I-“ He shakes his head. “I’m not explaining this right. At all. God, I feel so stupid.”

 

“No, hey, listen. You’re doing great. You’re really brave to come tell me about this. I know it can’t be easy.”

 

Grantaire draws in a breath. “It’s really not. I’m panicking. I’m sorry, it’s weird. You didn’t ask for any of this. You didn’t sign up for this.”

 

“You know what, R? I did. We all did. Because we’re your friends. So did Enjolras, for that matter, because he’s your boyfriend and he loves you, okay? He’s not going to back out of things just because you need more support right now.”

 

“You can’t know that.”

 

“No, I guess I can’t. But I know that if you do decide to talk to Enjolras about this- and it’s your decision, it’s got to be your decision- if you talk to him about it, and he doesn’t believe you, or he’s cruel to you about it- then he’s not the man you think he is, and he doesn’t deserve the way you feel about him.”

 

Grantaire feels so lost. He’s clinging to Jehan’s words just because of how sure and secure his friend sounds. “I- I’ll think about it.”

 

“That’s good.”

 

At that moment, Jehan’s phone starts to ring.

  
“It’s Enjolras,” they say, glancing down at the caller identification. “Is it okay if I answer it? I won’t if you ask me not to, but I think he deserves to know that you’re doing all right.”

 

Grantaire nods. “You can answer. Tell him I’m sorry.”

 

Jehan gives him a look, but they’re already picking up the phone, so they can’t say anything. “Hello, darling.”

 

Enjolras is talking loudly enough that Grantaire can actually hear him over the phone. His voice is breathless, high-pitched and panicked, and Grantaire’s stomach gives a little lurch. He did this. Part of him is reeling with guilt that he hurt Enjolras and another part is selfishly relieved to find out his partner cares that much. “Hi, Jehan, sorry, I just- is Grantaire with you?”

 

“Yes,” Jehan says. “Take a breath, you sound like you’re about to faint.”

 

“Oh, thank God,” Enjolras says. “Fuck, I’ve been calling everyone, I just- is he okay?”

 

“All in one piece. He’s been sitting right here on my couch. Maybe not feeling great, but physically all right, sober, calming down the longer he stays here. We’ve just been talking.”

 

“Will you tell him I’m sorry?” Enjolras asks, his voice breaking. “Please. I didn’t mean to push like that, and I-“

 

Grantaire can’t bear it. He grabs the phone out of Jehan’s hand. “Ange?”

 

Enjolras’ voice is full of caution, but also surprisingly tender. “Grantaire?”

 

“Don’t apologize. I’m the one who should be sorry. I ran out on you, I-“

 

“I was just so worried. I’m so glad you’re all right.” Enjolras is still being so cautious and it’s so unlike him. “I’ll leave you alone now, if you want. Just- I just had to know you were okay. I’m sorry. Call when you want to talk, I’ll have my phone on but I won’t-“

 

“No,” Grantaire says, surprised at himself. “No, come over now. I want to- I want to tell you what’s wrong. I want to talk to you.”

 

“Really?” Enjolras says, hope in his tone for a second before, “because you don’t have to. If you need space- I’m sorry I pushed earlier. I’m trying not to-“

 

“No, it’s really fine. I really-“ Grantaire takes a deep breath. “If I don’t tell you now, I’m going to lose my nerve. I may lose my nerve anyway, but I really want to- I want to give it a shot. You deserve the truth, and I- we’re going to have to have this conversation. I’d rather get it over with.”

 

“Do you want to have it at home, or at Jehan’s?”

 

“Jehan’s is good. I’d- I’d like it if we could have it with them here, if they don’t mind…”

 

“Whatever makes you comfortable. I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?”

 

“Okay. Thank you. I’m sorry.”

 

“I love you, R. I want to help, however I can., whatever it is. Okay?”

 

“Yeah. I love you too.”

 

“Do you want me to stay on the phone, or just get there as soon as I can?”

 

“Just come. I’m with Jehan, I’m okay.”

 

“Good. All right. I’ll see you really soon, Grantaire.”

 

The line goes dead and Grantaire’s stomach flips. He turns to Jehan. “I- I- can’t believe-“

 

“You’re doing well. You told me, and that was okay, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“So you got a practice run, and now you can tell Enjolras. You _can_ tell Enjolras—but you can also not, if that’s what you need. It’s just about making sure you have what you need to get better, whatever that means.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Do you want to try and eat something before he gets here? It  might help you think a little more clearly.”

 

Grantaire shakes his head, and then hesitates, letting the dizziness from that fade before he speaks. “No. I’m too anxious already, I can’t do that too. Sorry.”

 

“Don’t apologize. You’re doing really well, R. We’re going to get you through this.”

 

“Can we- can we not talk about it for a while? Please?”

 

“Sure. What would you like to talk about?”

 

“Read me something?”

 

Jehan smiles. “Sure.” They pick up the small volume of poetry they were reading when Grantaire walked in and start to read it aloud. It’s in Hebrew, so Grantaire picks up few of the words and almost none of the meaning, but his friend’s low, gentle voice is still soothing. Some of the anxiety has faded away by the time the phone rings and Jehan goes to buzz Enjolras in.

 

Of course the second that happens his fear is back in full force.

 

“I can’t do this,” he says to Jehan. “I can’t tell him. What if he doesn’t believe me? What if he laughs at me?”

 

“He won’t, but you don’t have to tell him, Grantaire. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. He’ll understand, and if he doesn’t I’ll kick him out of my apartment, I’m serious. He’ll be so happy just to see you, even if you don’t want to talk.”

 

But then Enjolras is knocking on the door, and Grantaire doesn’t have time to think.

 

His beloved tumbles through the door, looking slightly less composed and beautiful than normal. His pale skin is flushed, his golden curls in dissaray, tugged out of their usual orderly bun and scattered about his shoulders. Grantaire’s heart pounds, looking at him.

 

But then he sees Grantaire sitting on the couch, as much all in one piece as Jean Prouvaire had promised, and his whole face lights up. “Grantaire,” he says, gently, his voice almost inaudible. “Can I-“

 

Grantaire nods. He doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to, exactly, except everything, anything Enjolras wants. Enjolras could storm out or scream it him and he’d deserve it. He’d accept it.

 

All he does, though, is carefully walk over to the couch and sit down next to Grantaire. He slowly reaches out his hand, but doesn’t touch Grantaire until Grantaire makes a move to hold his hand in return. Then, though, he interlaces their fingers, clinging to Grantaire as though his life depends on it.

 

* * *

 

 

“You aren’t mad?” Grantaire says, cautiously.

 

Enjolras shakes his head. It’s the truth. He’s hurting, a little, but he’s trying to push that selfish feeling away. Whatever is going on with Grantaire, it has to be serious. He has enough trust in the other man—enough trust in himself—to believe that he wouldn’t just run off for no reason. Something must really be going on with him, and he needs Enjolras’ support, not his doubt, not his anger. “Of course not. I’m just worried, love. I just want to know what’s going on, that’s all.”

 

“I- I guess the first thing I should say is that I’m really sorry, Enjolras,” Grantaire manages, his voice choked up. “I didn’t mean to run off like that. I hope you know- I just- I got so anxious and I couldn’t stand it. You were being so nice to me and I don’t- I couldn’t feel like I deserved it, so I had to go. I’m sorry that I didn’t even tell you that. I feel like shit.”

 

“You’re wonderful,” Enjolras says gently. He’s not sure what else to say. “You’re gorgeous and kind and brilliant and I love you so much. Whatever’s wrong, I want to know, so I can help you deal with it. You don’t have to deserve that, okay? Although you do. I know it’s hard to feel like- I know it’s hard for you. But there’s no deserving or not deserving, all right? It’s just- it’s something I’m going to do because I love you.”

 

Grantaire manages a small smile, and it warms Enjolras’ heart almost to bursting to see that. “I love you too.”

 

“So- I mean, I don’t want to make you talk about anything you don’t want to, but let’s look at it as- is there anything I can do differently? A way I can support you better, or-“

 

“Um.” Grantaire says, and then takes a deep breath. “No, no, I’m going to have to tell you. It’s not your fault that I don’t want to, okay, I’m just- I’m-“ He leans forward, and Enjolras leaps at the chance to feel like he’s doing something. He wraps an arm around Grantaire, stroking his hair until the other man relaxes against his shoulder, hiding his face but at least a little bit of the tension leaving his body.

 

“It’s okay,” Enjolras murmurs. “Take your time. I’m going to be right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

That, too, seems to be the right thing to say. Enjolras can feel it as Grantaire relaxes a little bit in his arms, as he takes in a deep, deep breath. “Thank you.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Jehan, being the graceful, perfect soul that they are, has excused themself to the kitchen and is out of sight—though also quite possibly eavesdropping, Enjolras thinks.

 

“Okay,” Grantaire says. “Um. I haven’t eaten today and I fainted earlier and sometimes when I eat too much I make myself throw up on purpose so I guess I have some kind of—food… problem.” He speaks all in one breath, except the last two words.

 

As he listens to that, Enjolras tenses up. He tries to keep it out of his body, not wanting his partner to feel what he’s feeling, not wanting him to misread any signs of distress or feel anything from Enjolras except love and understanding and support.

 

But inside, his head is spinning and his heart is breaking as he adds it all up.

 

All the meals they’ve had together where Grantaire claimed he’d already eaten. All the times he’d eaten heartily, run off to the bathroom, and not come back for minutes after. (Enjolras had stupidly, stupidly assumed that his partner was just smoking and didn’t want to tell him). All those dizzy spells. All the times he’d brushed off a compliment from Enjolras, or said something disdainful about his own body. All of that, and Enjolras never thought twice. Never suspected that there might be a problem, and why?

 

Because Grantaire doesn’t look like the kind of person who has an eating disorder.

 

As Enjolras realizes the assumption he’d let himself fall prey to, the stereotypes he’d believed, he feels sick at himself. And when he realizes his own prejudgments had let his partner go on suffering without him even realizing—

 

His head is racing as all these thoughts rush through, but he realizes one thing. He has to say something. He has to reassure Grantaire, because his partner is right beside him, breath bated, his whole body tense as a drum as he waits for Enjolras to say something, anything.

 

As he waits for Enjolras to reject him, Enjolras realizes with a jolt.

 

Why else would Grantaire have gone so long without telling him? This can’t be easy, especially when Grantaire is already so insecure about so many things.

 

“I’m so sorry you’re going through this, love,” Enjolras says carefully.

 

Grantaire makes a little noise, almost like he’s phyiscally in pain. He doesn’t say anything, just hides his head on Enjolras’ shoulder. He’s shaking a little bit.

 

“Thank you for telling me. I’m so proud of you.”

 

Grantaire lifts his head up a little bit, glancing at Enjolras’ face. “You-“

 

“I love you so much.”

 

“You believe me,” he whispers, not quite a question.

 

Enjolras feels like he’s shattering to pieces but the only thing he can do is wrap his arms around Grantaire and hold him. It feels like he’s holding Grantaire together, holding himself together. “Of course. Of course I do.”

 

“And you still-“

 

“Nothing could change the way I feel about you.” Enjolras kisses his lips softly. “All you have to tell me is what I can do to support you. Because I’ll do whatever it takes.”

 

“Thank you,” Grantaire says simply.

 

“I care about you, R. I want to help. That’s all. Whatever I can do, okay?”

 

“I- I don’t always know. I can’t help myself, sometimes, so I’m not sure I can say for certain what- what it is that you could do to help. Sorry.”

 

“No, no, don’t apologize. That makes sense. Just tell me if you know, and if you don’t, then… Well, then that’s all right. That’s all right, and I’ll try and figure it out, and if I get it wrong I’ll try again.”

 

Grantaire is blinking back tears. “I don’t want to put that on you. I just don’t want you still wondering what’s wrong with me. Why I am the way I am.”

 

“The way you are is wonderful. I just wish you were happy.”

 

“I am when I’m with you.”

 

Enjolras smiles a small smile. “You look exhausted, love.”

 

“Yeah. Home?”

 

“Home, and some rest.”

 

They both thank Jehan for all their hospitality and help. Enjolras stands aside, a bit awkward, as Grantaire embraces them fiercely. Enjolras is more reserved, as usual, but he’s just as grateful even if he’s less sure how to express it.

 

They leave the apartment together, still almost dazed, quiet now. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Grantaire lets Enjolras lead him home.

 

He’s half-shocked, half-exhausted, trembling and numb. He’s relieved he didn’t cry at all, at least in front of Enjolras.

 

They go back to Enjolras’ flat, nicer and larger than Grantaire’s. They’re silent on the walk. Grantaire is far too tired to speak.

 

“Will you eat a little something?” Enjolras asks, his tone almost casual.

 

“I don’t think I can. I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t apologize. You’re not-“ Enjolras hesitates. “I’m so glad you told me. I don’t want it to be a hardship. It’s going to be difficult for me, from time to time, to know that you’re not getting what you need, but that doesn’t mean- I don’t ever want you to be sorry I know. So don’t- I’m not going to make you eat. If you don’t want to. But know that I want you to, okay?”

 

“Thank you. Means a lot,” Grantaire says. “And it could be good to know that, sometime. But right now- right now I just want to sleep. Is that okay?”

 

“Of course.”

 

They change into their pajamas and climb into bed. As usual, they end up spooned together. Enjolras is draped across Grantaire’s back, pressing their hips together, his lips in Grantaire’s hair as he drops little kisses onto his head and neck.

 

His hands, though- his hands are on Grantaire’s stomach. He’s gentle, his touch careful as he rubs little circles onto the skin. Grantaire tenses in his arms as a wave of visceral disgust washes through his body. He’s suddenly intensely aware of just how round and soft he is there, and Enjolras is touching him like it’s nothing. Any second now, he’ll realize and be as revolted by Grantaire as he is himself. He’ll leave. God knows if there was any way Grantaire could crawl out of his own skin, could make it so he never has to touch this disgusting body again, he would.

 

“R?”

 

Grantaire takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “Can you… not do that—please.”

 

“What?”

 

“My stomach. Please don’t touch it. I’m sorry.”

 

Enjolras takes his hand away immediately, resting it instead on Grantaire’s hip. “Is that okay?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Thanks for telling me.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“You know, I think your stomach is really nice,” Enjolras murmurs.

 

“Ange-“

 

“It’s so soft and curvy. I like it.”

 

“Don’t.”

 

“I’m sorry. I just- I think you’re so amazing. I wish you did, too.”

 

“Maybe some day.”

 

“We’re going to work on it, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Do you want to talk about that?”

 

Grantaire shakes his head. “Let’s just sleep, okay?”

 

“Anything I can do.”

 

Grantaire can feel his partner breathing steadily behind him. It’s good. He’s able to breathe as well, matching the rhythm, and some of the disgust quiets down. He feels less like he wants a drink, less like he wants to cut off his own skin as punishment for it being too much, too big, too ugly.

 

Enjolras knows, and he’s still not going anywhere, and that’s good enough. At least, it’s good enough for tonight.

 

Of course, Enjolras being Enjolras, he can’t let it rest for long.

 

Enjolras makes them coffee the next morning. He puts heaping spoonfuls of sugar in Grantaire’s and Grantaire knows in his heart it’s real sugar, not the fake sweetener he usually makes do with, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to say anything, and besides it tastes better. He can just about forget as he’s drinking it, it doesn’t taste that different, and the shaking in his hands is a little less.

 

“Do you think you could try something? An apple?”

 

Grantaire shakes his head. “Something else. Sorry, apples are one of the things- I have the calories memorized, and-“

 

“I could get croissants.”

 

“Just bread for me.”

 

“Okay.”

 

They eat their breakfast in bed and Grantaire is almost shocked at how much better he feels, how much more energetic, even as the guilt in his head is almost too much to bear.

 

He makes himself do it, bite after mechanical bite. He’s intensely aware of his body, of how much space he’s taking up, but he still manages half the piece of bread.

 

“I can’t,” he says.

 

And Enjolras is so quiet and accepting and perfect, just leaves his half-empty plate and kisses him.

 

“I—“

 

“What is it?”

 

“Enjolras, I think I’m going to try and get help. Professional help. I think…”

 

“That’s a great idea.”

 

“Will you come along?” Grantaire blurts. “No, sorry, I know how busy you are. Forget it-“

 

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Although kick me out to the waiting room if you want any privacy.”

 

“Okay,” Grantaire says. “And-“

 

“Do you want me to call and schedule?”

 

Grantaire finds few things as intimidating as talking on the phone. And of course Enjolras knows this, and of course Enjolras doesn’t have those anxieties. “Is it pathetic if I say yes?”

 

“I offered. Anything I can do to make this easier.” Enjolras looks at him, and his gaze is so intent and his eyes so very blue. “I can’t take away your pain or your problems, but I can make a phone call. And if that’s all I can do, I’m doing it.”

 

Enjolras speaks to Cosette, who recommends him a coworker of her father’s. They’re scheduled in for next week.

 

 

* * *

 

Grantaire is visibly nervous in the waiting room. He’s tapping his foot and staring at the ground. His grip on Enjolras’ hand is almost painfully tight. He’s babbling away, as he so often is when he’s nervous.

 

The pretty young receptionist calls them in.

 

Elisabeth Simplice is a serious woman in her middle years, dressed severely in a black pencil skirt and dark blouse. She wears a discrete necklace with a small crucifix on it and no other jewelry. She shakes each of their hands and then invites them to sit.

 

“Grantaire, you’re the one I’ll be working with, is that correct?”

 

“Yeah,” Grantaire says quietly.

 

“Have you ever been in therapy before?”

 

“No. I wanted to, when I was thinking about quitting drinking, but I couldn’t… I didn’t ever make an appointment.”

 

“What brings you in now?”

 

“Um. I think things are getting really bad, and now I- I finally have a reason to get better.”

 

Grantaire takes Enjolras’ hand and smiles slightly at him. There’s a small couch in the office, and they’re close enough together that they’re sitting hip-to-hip. Grantaire seems a little calmer with the contact than he was in the waiting room.

 

“Now, I don’t offer couple’s therapy,” she says. “I want to be very upfront with you.”

 

“Our relationship isn’t the problem,” Grantaire mumbles. “Is he not allowed to be here?”

 

“Of course your partner can stay to support you if you’d like, but I want both of you to understand that I’m working with Grantaire primarily, not with issues between you.”

 

“That’s okay. We’re doing really well. Like I said, it’s the reason I want to get better. I have something to be happy about now. I have him.”

 

“And please don’t hesitate to ask me to step out,” Enjolras says. “I’ll be happy to go, if either of you think it’s better for me to wait outside. I don’t ever have to come to another appointment, if I’m not being helpful here.”

 

“Good. The same goes for me, you know,” Dr. Simplice says. “I have a very particular style. I believe in absolute honesty with my patients, and that may not work for you. If my style isn’t what you need, let me know.”

 

“Okay.” Grantaire looks, if anything, more nervous. Enjolras tries to comfort him as best as he can, rubbing circles with his thumb against Grantaire’s hand.

 

“Without further ado, let’s get started.”

 

They start by talking through Grantaire’s life history.

 

Enjolras has heard most of this before, whether as his friend or later, since they’ve been dating.  However, he’s never heard it quite like this. When Grantaire talks about his life, he usually does so half-jokingly, pretending nothing matters.

 

Now he can’t. Every time he begins to do so, Dr. Simplice cuts him off, either with a word or two or simply a gesture of her hand. She’s also quite good at detecting when he’s not telling the truth, and calls him out on it.

 

And so, for the first time, in full and with none of the joking or laughter, Enjolras hears everything.

 

He hears about how often Grantaire’s parents moved him around as a kid. He hears about Grantaire’s little sister, and how she was the anchor of his early life. He smiles as he always does, talking about Maxine. He has endless stories of the two of them running through city plazas, of their private jokes, of long nights confiding in each other.

 

Then he starts talking about his parents.

 

Enjolras has heard Grantaire do so before, but it’s always been a joke, or an off-hand comment. At some of Enjolras’ harsher remarks, Grantaire used to mumble, “You sound just like my dad,” and Enjolras had thought it was a joke about how bossy and patronizing Enjolras admittedly could be.

 

Now, as Grantaire talks about growing up under his father’s thumb, about being screamed at for his failures in math class and ridiculed for his love of art, about some of those sleepless nights with Maxine barring the door so their drunken father couldn’t get in, about being called worthless and ugly even as a child—now, Enjolras is horrified.

 

He left home right after high school graduation. It was half running away, half going off to college. He was lucky enough—in his words, Enjolras knows it’s sheer talent—to be awarded an extremely prestigious scholarship. He describes leaving, nothing but a single duffel back to hold his possessions.

 

He talks about having his first drink to celebrate. He was afraid of the stuff in high school—the smell always reminded him too much of his father. But he needed something to make him feel connected to the strangers all around him, the other kids in school who had parents to call and homes to go back to over break.

 

That was also when he started skipping meals. It was for cost at first. He was poor, a student without family to support him, and though he didn’t have to pay for tuition his part-time job could barely help him make rent and groceries.

 

He started dating this guy, someone Enjolras has only heard him refer to very obliquely before. It sounds now like it was more than the fling Grantaire had made it sound like—as though maybe he really loved this guy. He’d been with girls in high schol, but was too afraid with his father around to ever get serious with one, let alone be with a man.

 

They’d gone out for several months before they became intimate—surprisingly to Enjolras, who didn’t know him then, at Grantaire’s insistence. When they did, though, when Grantaire took his clothes off and was naked and completely vulnerable, he was expecting something wonderful.

 

Instead, his partner took a long look at him and broke things off.

 

He started drinking more and eating less, disgusted at the body that wasn’t good enough for the man he loved. He tried to throw himself into his work, hoping to find satisfaction in the only thing he’d ever been really good at, but he hit a wall with art.

 

“And then I burned out,” Grantaire says, looking down at the ground. “I fucked it all up, you know? My mentor was so amazing. I always looked up to him, and he was an incredible artist and he had so much faith in me, and I just couldn’t. I was getting drunk every day, I wasn’t eating, and that meant- that meant I couldn’t work. I just wasn’t able to get any work done, to  keep up with my courses—nothing. I ended up dropping out. Drank more and more, started working a couple of part time jobs… got lucky enough to meet the Amis, got even luckier to call them my friends, luckiest of all to be with Enjolras.”

 

“Thank you,” the doctor says. “For your honesty today. We’re out of time, but we can try and get through the rest of your history, and start working through some of the issues with food next time.”

 

“When?”

 

“Next week.”

 

“Okay. I’ll see you then.”

 

She shakes their hands again, and they’re out the door.

 

On the walk home, Enjolras is hesitant to bring anything up, but he’s not sure what else to talk about. One-on-one conversations have never been his strength. He’s good with a crowd, but in small groups he tends to be quiet. Still, he needs to know.

 

“How was that?” Enjolras asks tentatively.

 

“Weird,” Grantaire says. “But I guess it can help. I hope so.”

 

“Me too.”

 

“I’ll give it another shot, at least.”

 

“That’s good.” Enjolras bumps Grantaire’s shoulder with his own playfully. “Let me take you for lunch?”

 

“I—okay.”

 

Grantaire looks uncomfortable with the whole idea, but Enjolras is willing to push just a little bit to get him to get what his body needs. “Just so you know, you don’t ever have to be pressured to eat, if you feel like you can’t. Let me know if I’m pushing too hard.”

 

“Okay. It helps.”

 

“It does?”

 

“To know that you want me to.”

 

“Then, just so you know, I’d really appreciate it if you’d like to go get some lunch with me.”

 

“I can try.”

 

They head to one of Grantaire’s many favorite spots throughout the city. It’s a little falafel window. They pick up their sandwiches and head to the park, sitting in the grass to eat. Grantaire looks a little hesitant as he starts to eat, but in the end he seems to start to enjoy it.

 

They spend the rest of the waning afternoon in the park, watching as people come and go and the sun slowly dwindles. They talk a little and kiss more.

 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras says abruptly. He’s not entirely sure how to say this, but suddenly he really needs to be certain Grantaire has heard this from him, even if he’s not sure Grantaire will believe him.

 

Grantaire, clearly drowsy from the long afternoon in the sun and dozing a little against Enjolras’ shoulder, opens his wide eyes. “Hmm?”

 

“There’s something I need to say. I need to say even more after today, after hearing what the doctor said about me coming to appointments.”

 

“Which is?”

 

Grantaire says it with his usual casualness, but his voice has that edge in it like deep-down he’s nervous.

 

“I’m always going to be here for you. Whatever it takes, whatever you need. Please tell me, and I’ll do my best. I really want to help.”

 

There’s a long silence. Grantaire doesn’t say anything at all, and then, quietly, he says, “Thank you.” It’s not like him to talk so little, and Enjolras can tell how serious this is to him.

 

“Of course. Anything.”

 

* * *

 

One thing about having a therapist who insists on honesty under all circumstances is that Grantaire has never been under any illusions that recovery will be easy.

  
He wouldn’t even have used that word when he started—at first he was just trying to make it all a little less of a problem, but he didn’t expect it to turn into such a project.  Dr. Simplice makes it clear that it has to be a priority. She even suggests that full-time live-in treatment might be the only option.

 

“Or at least the fastest, Grantaire.”

 

“But I’m not that badly off.”

 

She gives him that look. “Your disorder is very complex. You may not be technically underweight, but you could be in a large amount of danger. Alcohol consumption combined with meal skipping is a huge risk factor, not to mention the fact that purging with the frequency you do could do permanent damage. Don’t underestimate the severity of your problems.”

 

He manages to convince her that it’s not for him. He needs the support of his friends and boyfriend, and he doesn’t think being surrounded by a bunch of people who are probably really seriously sick would be good for him.

 

Still, it’s slower and longer than he’d thought. He starts seeing a dietician as well, and going to AA. He jokes that it’s a full-time job, getting better.

 

He also moves in with Enjolras. It isn’t a part of his recovery, not technically, but he never would have done it without the decision to start treatment.

 

He thinks about that every time he starts to get too doubtful that this is worth it.

 

He would have had to live on his own forever, so that he could have his own space to throw up in.

 

It sounds absurd, said like that. And it is. That’s the kind of logic he used to live by, and live by unquestioned.

 

He could have never woken up in Enjolras’ arms every morning. Never seen him dancing around in nothing but his briefs while he makes the bed. Never laughed at him for burning toast or gotten that gorgeous smile for bringing him coffee in bed.

 

All because he thought he needed a place all his own to shove his fingers down his throat until he puked.

 

It’s absurd even to him. Living with Enjolras is so amazing, and purging is so terrible, that he can’t believe he ever would have given up on one for the other.

 

When he’s thinking clearly at least.

 

When he’s not, though, there are times he regrets ever telling Enjolras. There are times he wishes he could just be left to starve.There are definitely times he feels so unworthy of Enjolras’ kindness that getting it at all makes his skin crawl. He wishes he was alone, that he were still in his old apartment by himself and he could crawl into bed by himself and hide from the world under the covers and no one would know or care. He doesn’t know if he can bear just how much Enjolras cares.

 

Today is one of those days.

 

He’d begged off going to the meeting that is fortunately occupying Enjolras for most of the afternoon. He skipped breakfast, claiming he’s too nauseous—a convenient excuse. He’s gotten Enjolras to stop asking, since it’s a side effect of his recent attempts to cut back on drinking. Today he isn’t sick to his stomach, not really, but that won’t last long. The longer he goes without eating, the more his stomach really does start to churn.

 

He waits for Enjolras to leave, promising to have some lunch, and then crawls back under the covers and closes his eyes.

 

It’s almost comforting in a way, this slide back into the familiar misery. He knows this, at least. Being happy, being loved, that’s all so new that it feels frightening, feels almost dangerous. This he knows how to do.

 

At first, he’s so hungry that it’s almost painful, but that subsides, as it always does. After a while, it’s nothing but a vague dizziness. He can feel his thoughts slowing almost to a stop. He’s not anxious today, just lying there feeling it, sunk into a terrible misery about himself but not wanting to say anything, not wanting to put even more of a burden on Enjolras, who’s had so much to deal with from him already and gotten basically nothing in return.

 

That wasn’t a good thing to think. Fuck. Now he’s worrying about what he’ll do when Enjolras—

 

Gets home. Which he’s just done, very early.

 

He’s holding a box of something.

 

“R?”

 

“What? Sorry, I’m just not feeling very well.”

 

“That’s okay. I just- I was worried. I brought you these.” He opens the box. It’s a half-dozen cupcakes from Grantaire’s favorite place. Grantaire’s stomach turns, looking at them.

 

“I can’t,” Grantaire says. He’s half-begging, and the desperation in his voice must make him sound so pathetic, he knows that but he can’t help it. “Please, Enjolras, I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

 

“Hey. You’re okay.” Gingerly, Enjolras takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “You don’t have to have one if it’s going to make things worse. I just- I was just trying to make a gesture. Forget about it.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire repeats. “Fuck, you’re so great. You’re just trying to be sweet and here I am ruining everything.”

 

“You didn’t ruin anything. I just want to help.”

 

“It’s just—I can’t eat them, I can’t, but now they’re going to go to waste and you probably spent a lot of money on them and they’re so good I’ll feel bad about not eating them but I’ll feel even worse if I do and—“

 

“The’re not going to go to waste,” Enjolras consoles. “I can bring them to tomorrow’s meeting, they’ll still be perfectly good and they’ll all get eaten. Or we can freeze them and you can have one another time, when you feel up to it.”

 

It’s a little hard for Grantaire to get that into his head. He’s so set on the anxiety he’d been feeling that he almost doesn’t want to be consoled. His gut reaction is to argue with Enjolras—he’s _not_ going to be okay, how dare Enjolras suggest a thing like that—but instead he decides that he doesn’t want to start a fight or anything.

 

“Okay. Yeah. Freezer,” he mumbles.

 

“Then I’ll come right back here, all right?”

 

“I thought you were still supposed to be at your meeting.”

 

“I was worried.”

 

“No, go back to your meeting,” Grantaire tries to insist, knowing how feeble his protests must sound. He doesn’t really want Enjolras to go anywhere.

 

“Let me correct myself, darling. It’s not that I feel I should be here. I want to be here. With you. Nothing else.”

 

Grantaire doesn’t know what to say that, so he just accepts it without another word, deciding to accept this even though he knows just how little he deserves all these gifts the world has given him. He doesn’t deserve to be this happy, but somehow he’s been given this, and he’s going to make the best of it while he can.

 

They end up spending the afternoon in bed together. Enjolras reads while Grantaire curls up against his side, enjoying the soothing motion of Enjolras’ hands running through his hair. It’s a gentle, steady pressure, slow and easy, and it helps Grantaire get his panic under control. He’s still unhappy, but he doesn’t feel like he can’t breathe anymore.

 

He breathes in time with Enjolras, enjoying everything about this moment—his boyfriend’s warmth, the sweet smell of his vanilla shampoo, his little hums of agreement as he reads along.

 

Everything, of course, except the soul-deep surety that he doesn’t, can’t, will never deserve it.

 

But he’s taking it anyway. Taking it because he’s selfish and needy, but also because it’s here, because Enjolras is, for whatever reason, offering it to him.

 

And he can’t bear to say no, not when this feels so good.

 

His thoughts start to drift into calmness after that. The movement of Enjolras’ hands in his hair are just too soothing for the anxiety to stay, as much as he somehow wants to cling to it.

 

After all, it’s the devil he knows. Pushing people away with drunken outbursts or jokes or his own crudity. Being alone with his sadness. Knowing he’s unloveable and punishing himself for it, again and again, every second of every day.

 

Yet this time he won’t.

 

This time he’ll let himself take what’s here. He’ll let himself reach out and hold on and just be here.

 

“All right?” Enjolras murmurs to him.

 

“I will be,” Grantaire says, and it’s hardly even a lie.

 

Enjolras kisses his hair and keeps rubbing his back and holding him. Grantaire closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and lets himself relax, just a little.

 

The misery isn’t gone, not yet, but maybe it’s getting better.

 

* * *

 

 

 Enjolras is so proud of Grantaire- for a number of reasons.

 

They’re together at a small gallery opening of his partner’s work. That’s the first, and most important. Grantaire used to say that it wasn’t even worth trying to sell his  art in any kind of a formal way. He was happy doing sketches out of his book stand, and he’d never be a real artist.

 

But when a friend of Jehan’s needed something to put up in a hurry after a much-hyped exhibit of Japanese prints got caught up in customs, Enjolras decided to think about talking Grantaire into it. He hesitated, of course—he often feels like he might be putting too much pressure on Grantaire to change, and he never wants to make him feel like he needs to be different for Enjolras’ sake. He was just trying to figure out how to gently bring it up when Grantaire said, “So I’m having some stuff displayed in a gallery.”

 

Apparently he’d decided on his own to go for it, called Jehan’s friend, and now they’re  at the opening.

 

He’s also proud of Grantaire for waving away the glass of celebratory champagne he’s offered. Grantaire has been drinking a lot less lately. When he does, he still gets very, very drunk indeed, but it happens once every couple of weeks at the most now, and at other times he turns down drinks which he never would have done before.

 

Most of all, he’s proud of how Grantaire is letting himself be happy. Before a few months ago and that horrible conversation at Jehan’s, Enjolras had never seen Grantaire look as free and pleased as he does now. A little nervous, yes, but not that irrational anxiety that can so often torment Grantaire.

 

Grantaire is looking relatively relaxed and extremely handsome tonight. He’s dressed more formally than usual—tight-fitting black trousers and a light purple shirt not-quite-buttoned so Enjolras can see an extremely tempting patch of chest hair peeking out the top.

 

“What are you looking at?” Grantaire whispers to him.

 

“You,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire blushes a little. Enjolras likes that. “Or, in other words, the most gorgeous thing in this room.”

 

“Doesn’t say much for the art,” Grantaire mutters.

 

“Your art is genuinely amazing. You are even more so.”

 

“You’re a sap.”

 

“You do bring that aspect out in me, yes.”

 

Grantaire snorts, but he looks pleased. “Come on, we have to mingle.”

 

This is much more Grantaire’s area than Enjolras, but Grantaire manages to do a pretty good job making his partner feel comfortable. He introduces Enjolras to everyone, with little whispered comments to Enjolras as they approach this group or that to explain why everyone is important.

 

Finally, when Enjolras is absolutely sure he can’t even try and tell the difference between Pierre the art journalist and Pierre-Michel the art critic, Grantaire says, “Look, I have to keep doing this, but you’re free to go hang out with everyone else if you want.”

 

“Everyone else?”

 

Enjolras turns, and sees a mass of people who don’t exactly match the black-tie atmosphere of the rest of the crowd. The rest of the Amis have arrived.”

 

“Jehan told them,” Grantaire says, a little embarassed.

 

“Are you sure you don’t—“

 

“I’ll be okay without you on my arm. I do have to meet people, though.”

 

Enjolras goes to talk to his friends, enormously relieved. Still, as he chats with Combeferre and Courfeyrac and periodically takes things off the passed appetizer trays, he keeps one eye on Grantaire, watching him laugh and joke with near-strangers, seeing him blush as he presumably receives a compliment on the gorgeous abstract piece hanging over the door, knowing that he’s happy.

 

He thinks back to that day that Grantaire told him, thinks of him curled up and miserable under the covers the other day, thinks of him trying to hide his brilliance away because of all the ways the world has hurt him, and he resolves yet again to make sure Grantaire can always feel like this.

 

After the reception, they go for dinner. “Not sure who decided the recovering alcoholic’s art show should have a cocktail reception,” Grantaire says as they head out.

 

“You didn’t have any, though. That must have been hard.”

 

“Are you kidding? All those people staring at me? I’ve never wanted a drink so badly in my entire life.”

 

“That just makes it more impressive that you didn’t.”

 

Grantaire shakes his head at him.

 

“What?”

 

“You’re just so earnest about everything all the damn time. It’s really cute. I like you. That’s all.”

 

“I really like you too. I may have mentioned this.”

 

“Once or twice.”

 

They flirt over Thai food and then head home for the night.

 

“Enjolras?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I… I’ve been thinking.”

 

“And?”

 

“I’ve been thinking, if you want, maybe tonight or some other time soon, I could try—we could try sex with me being, well, actually taking my clothes off. And we could keep the lights on.”

 

“Really?”

 

“It’s—I mean, only if you don’t want to. I get it, you might not want to have to worry about me freaking out in the middle of sex, but you always kind of try and get your hands under my clothes and I figured you might like to try it, but like I said we don’t have to. It’s really fine—“

 

“Of course I want to.” Enjolras leans in to gently kiss his lips. “I just didn’t think you’d be ready. After the awful way your ex-“

 

“Yeah, I don’t know. I guess I figure—I mean I’ve been being stupid. It’s not like you don’t know what my body looks like. Hell, it’s not like he didn’t, he was just- I don’t know. But I know you won’t…you know. And you want me anyway. Right?”

 

The hesitation in Grantaire’s voice is undeniable, as much as he’s obviously trying to hide it. “I want you so much. You are so gorgeous and and as sexy as that outfit looks on you, I would love to peel you out of it.”

 

Grantaire swallows hard. “Well, then. Okay. I guess you should do that.”

 

“Sure?”

 

“Very.”

 

Enjolras kisses him. This time, it’s not a gentle, chaste thing. He’s not exactly rough, but he makes his intentions clear. “Promise me you’ll say something, or use the safeword, if I make you uncomfortable at all.”

 

“I will.”

 

“Are there—where I can I touch you?”

 

“I want…” Grantaire hesitates, and Enjolras gives him time to come up with the words. “I want to give myself to you. All of myself. I want you to be able to do what you want with me. I promise to stop if it’s too much, though. But for now, no limits.”

 

Enjolras is struck yet again by how much trust Grantaire is putting in him. It’s fragile, certainly, but that only makes it all the more precious. “Thank you, R.”

 

He kisses him again, and this time it’s downright filthy. He holds Grantaire’s upper arms, half-pinning him to the couch as his teeth graze across Grantaire’s lower lip. The graze becomes a proper bite and Grantaire moans.

 

That’s probably Enjolras’ favorite sound in the world, that little broken moan Grantaire lets out when Enjolras is kissing him and hurting him all at once.

 

He gently sucks at Grantaire’s ear, and then trails his lips downward, sucking a few bright marks into the sensitive skin of Grantaire’s neck. He pauses at Grantaire’s adam’s apple, brushing a soft kiss there, and then just beneath, a savage bite.

 

“You—fuck, I’m going to be all marked up for days. You’re a fiend.”

 

“That was sort of my plan,” Enjolras says, smiling.

 

“Everyone I ssee will-“

 

“Know that you’re mine.”

 

“I was going to say, know that I’ve been making out like a horny teenager. It’s highly unlikely people will know it was you in particular, unless you’ve been going around leaving particularly distinctive hickeys on loads of people so they’d recognize- shit-“

 

Enjolras laughs to himself as Grantaire’s rambling trails off into a desperate moan as Enjolras softly nips his ear.

 

“You look great in this shirt. I’m going to take it off you now,” Enjolras says. He wants to make sure nothing comes as a surprise to Grantaire—he wants his partner to be really prepared for everything. Grantaire is making himself very vulnerable right now. It’s the least Enjolras can do to try and prove himself somehow worthy of that trust.

 

“Okay,” Grantaire agrees.

 

Enjolras kisses the little expoed triangle of skin at Grantaire’s open collar. His fingers work on the button just beneath, and then he lets his mouth explore the newly revealed skin. Again and again he does this, taking the time to kiss and lick and taste every inch as the buttons are undone, until Grantaire’s shirt is unbuttoned, hanging open from his shoulders.

 

Enjolras sits back for a second, just to look at him. Grantaire’s face is turned away, clearly embarassed or too nervous to see what Grantaire’s reaction will be. Enjolras takes a long selfish moment to admire his body—his strong shoulders, his gorgeous tan skin, the soft curves of his stomach.

 

“Fuck, you are so beautiful,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire doesn’t say anything, still hiding his face. “R? Shit, are you okay?”

 

“I—yeah. Yeah, I’ll be okay. You can keep going. Just—this is new, you know? Give me a little bit. I have to get used to it. It’s good. It’s just that this is new for me. I’ve never let anyone—“

 

“Well, I’ll have to be sure to take especially good care of you, then,” Enjolras assures him.

 

“How did I get so lucky?”

 

“I could say the same thing.”

 

When Grantaire doesn’t object further, Enjolras returns to his exploration of his boyfriend’s body.

 

“Enjolras?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“What—what should I do with my hands?” Grantaire asks. He sounds quite nervous, and Enjolras recognizes suddenly that although Grantaire is by far the more experienced of the two of them, letting someone touch him like this is still a newexperience for him.

 

“Here,” Enjolras says. He takes Grantaire’s wrists in his hands, pinning them to either side of his hips. He keeps him there, holding him down, while his mouth continues to work over the expanse of bared skin. “When we get to the bedroom,” he murmurs in between little bites to the lower curve of Grantaire’s stomach, “I’ll tie you up. Would you like that?”

 

“Are you kidding? Holy shit, if I’d known letting you take my clothes off would do this, I would have let you ages ago.”

 

“Well, as much as I regret all the days I went without seeing you like this, we can make up for lost time.” Enjolras stands up. “Bedroom.”

 

“Bossy.”

 

“I thought you were into that,” Enjolras teases with a smile, and Grantaire grins back at him and follows him into their bedroom.

 

Grantaire lets Enjolras strip him the rest of the way naked. He’s seen Grantaire without pants before, of course, but this time it’s very different. It means that Grantaire is completely nude standing in front of him.

 

Enjolras can appreciate how hard this must be for him, even as he’s mostly just appreciating how incredible Grantaire is. His blush spreads from his face across his chest. There are red marks from Enjolras’ mouth all down his neck and some on his chest and stomach. Although he’s visibly nervous, biting his lip and his eyes looking away, he’s also getting hard.

 

Looking at him, Enjolras just has to kiss him hard, putting all his love and passion into that kiss. He tugs at Grantaire’s hair, loving the little moan that spurs from Grantaire, and then pulls away to quickly shed his own clothes.

 

He strips himself much quickly and more efficiently than the slow undressing he’d given Grantaire, but then they’re both naked. It’s the first time this has happened in their short relationship, and it feels like a huge milestone, a huge amount of trust.

 

“I promised to tie you up,” Enjolras comments. “Hands.”

 

Grantaire extends his, shaking a little.

 

“Nervous?”

 

“Not really. Excited, maybe. I was nervous, but now I’m—the hard parts over.”

 

Enjolras smirks. “I don’t know about that. There’s plenty of hard parts in your immediate future.”

 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Oh my god, Enjolras, that was _terrible._ ”

 

Enjolras just smiles at him as he wraps the rope around his wrists, carefully binding him. When Grantaire’s hands are secured, Enjolras uses his grip on the rope to pull him in close for a kiss.

 

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So gorgeous. Nothing on that beautiful body except my ropes.” He kisses him again, gently. “Lie down on the bed.”

 

Grantaire does, spreading his legs slightly in an unconscious display. He’s giving himself over in that beautiful way he does, and Enjolras is nothing but grateful for it.

 

He positions himself so he’s kneeling, his hips on either side of Grantaire’s. It gives him flexibility to move.

 

And then, as he’d promised, he takes his time exploring Grantaire.

 

He kisses up and down his chest, noting every spot that makes him moan or whimper or gasp. He teases Grantaire’s nipples, first with his fingers and then with his tongue and finally with his teeth. He leaves marks everywhere.

 

Grantaire seems relaxed enough. He tenses slightly when Enjolras first settles his hand around the soft curve at his lower stomach, but when all Enjolras does is gently caress the skin and then carefully lay some kisses there, he closes his eyes and hums, contented.

 

This is such a privilege. Enjolras had expected it to take them much longer to get to this point, if indeed they ever made it. He knows how hard it is for Grantaire… at least, in the abstract. In reality, he’s not sure if it’s even possible for him to recognize how much of a struggle this is from the outside.

 

All he can do is be careful. He checks in with Grantaire often enough that it’s entirely possible he’s being annoying, but Grantaire is careful to be honest and patient with him in return.

 

“Is that okay?” he asks, as he traces the stretch marks on Grantaire’s belly.

 

“Yeah.”

 

The look on his lover’s face is a little bit pained. “Are you sure? Stop me if you want to stop. We can do something else.”

 

“I’m sure,” Grantaire says. Enjolras isn’t sure how to interpret the look on his face, but part of the honesty he’s promised Grantaire means believing him, so he continues his slow exploration of all the parts of Grantaire he’s never been allowed to see before.

 

He really is beautiful. Under any other circumstances, Enjolras would be furious—furious that they still live in a world that doesn’t acknowledge Grantaire as such, that won’t allow him to love every inch of himself as much as Enjolras does.

 

Because Enjolras certainly does. Enjolras is in amazement—Enjolrasis in fucking _awe—_ of Grantaire. Of Grantaire’s body, of his trust, of his whole self.

 

Of how much progress he’s made, from the first time they were together like this, with Grantaire insisting on hiding himself away, to now, when he’s giving and open, when he’s not only allowing Enjolras to touch the parts of himself that are most vulnerable but enjoing it.

 

He is enjoying it. He’s moaning openly, shivering with pleasure under Enjolras’ touch, occasionally verbalising his desire—“That feels so good, Ange, you’re amazing—“

 

Enjolras takes his time. When he finally turns his attention away from Grantaire’s chest, Grantaire is already hard, his cock leaking slightly. Enjolras can’t resist the temptation to lean down and lick away the pearl of fluid.

 

Grantaire, evidently surprised by this, jerks his hips, swearing. He’d writhe away from the bed, but he’s held fast by the ropes around his wrists. He settles for letting out a truly vile stream of swear words ending in, “Enjolras, your fucking mouth, I swear to God-“

 

“Oh, you liked that?”

 

“ _Christ,_ yes, fucking fuck me—“

 

“Is that something you want?” Enjolras asks seriously, then presses his lips to Grantaire’s thigh.

 

The kiss turns into a rather savage bite, and Grantaire is whimpering as he says, “Yes, yes, Ange, please.”

 

“Shh.” Enjolras shifts upward a little bit, grabbing the lube from the bedside table, and slicks his fingers up. “If that’s what you want, then that’s what you’ll get. I want to make you just as happy as you’ve made me tonight.”

 

“I don’t know, I’m already pretty fucking blitzed out.”

 

“You swear a lot when you’re horny. It’s cute.”

 

“Sorry, I can’t think, because all the blood in my whole body has rushed from my brian down to my dick. Rendering me less eloquent then usual—“

 

Grantaire trails off as Enjolras slides two fingers into him. He’s not rough, but he’s not exactly gentle either.

 

“Okay?” Enjolras asks, looking up to see Grantaire’s expression. His jaw is slack, his eyes wide as he looks downward at Enjolras in return.

 

“Yeah,” he manages. “Please.”

 

“I like it when you beg,” Enjolras says, crooking his fingers carefully. Grantaire lets out a gasp as they glide over his prostate.

 

“Really? I hadn’t— _fuck—_ hadn’t noticed—“ he snarks, and Enjolras grins at him.

 

“Big mouth. Let’s see if I can’t shut you up.”

 

“I feel—oh, shit, I feel fairly confident you can…” Enjolras is working him open slowly and carefully, easing a third finger in. When it’s all the way in, he starts to fuck Grantaire with them. At first, he’s quite slow, but he works his way up to a fast pace quickly. The more he does, the more Grantaire bucks his hips and whimpers.

 

“You look so perfect like this, all spread out for me. I can’t wait to fuck you, R, do you think you’re ready—“

 

“I’m so ready. Please—“

 

Enjolras kisses him hard on the lips, lining himself up. The position is still a little awkward—he’s not yet an expert at this, they’ve only been fucking for a few weeks—but once he’s inside, everything feels so natural and right. Grantaire feels perfect, so hot and tight around him.

 

He hesitates for just a second, meeting Grantaire’s eyes to make sure that this is still okay, that his love is still all right. Their lips meet again, and Enjolras starts to move.

 

Grantaire stretches and closes his eyes and tilts his hips so Enjolras has the perfect angle. He can’t get as deep like this, face to face, but it’s so much more intense than the way they’ve fucked in the past, with Enjolras behind him and Grantaire still half-dressed. It’s exquisite.

 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Enjolras growls, his voice low. “I love you so much.”

 

Enjolras is slamming into him now, the pace much rougher than usual. He’s never felt quite like this. It’s never been quite this good. Grantaire is so much happier than usual, more relaxed and giving and open, and in return Enjolras is determined to shower him with pleasure, to make him see that Enjolras doesn’t just accept his body but adores it. Adores him.

 

Grantaire is moaning steadily know, soft little noises trailing from his lips. Enjolras kisses them away, his teeth teasing the edge of Grantaire’s full lower lip.

 

Enjolras keeps up the pace. He’s trying to get Grantaire’s prostate on every single thrust, and from the broken, pleased moans he’s letting out, he’s more or less succeeding.

 

He’s getting close himself, but he can’t let himself come. He wants Grantaire to have as much as he’d like, to lose himself completely. He’s given Enjolras so much tonight, and he deserves to have everything in return.

 

Most of the pleasure of this is taking him apart, is watching him be really in his body, really happy with it if only with the pleasure it can bring, and looking at how incredible he looks as—

 

His mouth is wide open with pleasure, his eyes shut, his whole body trembling. Enjolras can’t take his eyes off him, can’t get enough of looking at him.

 

“Ange, I’m going to—“ he gasps out, but that’s all he gets out before he’s jerking his hips into the empty air and then coming.

 

Enjolras watches as he does, watches the streaks of whiteness that stain Grantaire’s stomach. “Fuck,” he says. “So fucking hot, R,” and then that’s all he knows before he’s following Grantaire into orgasm.

 

When it’s over, and they’re both in the wake of their pleasure, Enjolras eases himself out of Grantaire’s body and lies down next to him.

 

“That was incredible,” Grantaire says softly.

 

“Yeah,” Enjolras echoes, his eloquence lost.

 

Grantaire laughs a little bit, and then curls into him, kissing his cheek. “I love you.”

 

“I love you too,” Enjolras says, curling his arm around Grantaire.

 

This time, Grantaire lets him wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him in close. They lie side by side, and Enjolras watches as Grantaire falls into a deep, peaceful sleep before following him into slumber.

 

* * *

 

Everything is going very well, until it’s suddenly not.

 

The downslide begins when he hears a tittering comment from an American girl right behind him at the _boulangerie—_ apparently she doesn’t realize most French people can speak English, since she says fairly loudly to her friend, “I thought the French were supposed to be thin.”

 

Grantaire blushes and orders his pastry, but he doesn’t eat it. Instead, he goes home and looks at it, laying it out on the table in front of him and staring vaguely at it.

 

He doesn’t take a bite.

 

He wants to.

 

He woke up looking forward to that mid-afternoon treat after his long morning of work, and he intended to enjoy it without guilt, and now he can’t.

 

He thinks about eating it anyway and throwing it up.

  
He thinks about not eating at all.

 

And then he thinks about how Enjolras would feel about either of those things. He wouldn’t be disappointed, but he’d be sad. He wouldn’t want Grantaire to do that.

 

So he manages to convince himself to do something he might once have thought he never would dare.

 

He picks up the phone and calls Enjolras at work.

 

“Hey love. What is it? I’m a bit busy.”

 

“Sorry. I’m having a little bit of a freak out about food. It’s fine. Finish whatever you’re doing, but if you can take a break sometime—“

 

“Okay. Sure, I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Are you safe?”

 

“I am.”

 

“All right. I love you.”

  
“I love you too.”

 

The line goes dead and Grantaire is left there, sitting, staring at his pain au chocolat.

 

Finally, he picks it up and takes a bite.

 

It tastes like ash in his mouth. He can taste the pleasure of the food, the sweetness and the chocolate and the fattiness, but it’s all covered over with so much shame that it feels far away. He can’t bear it. But at the same time he eats the whole thing, even though with every bite all the things he hates about himself—his flabby stomach, his squishy thighs—are pounding in his head. Every bite makes it worse and worse but he knows he deserves it. He does deserve it. He deserves to feel sick and disgusting because he is and he doesn’t deserve to be allowed to eat but he has anyway and there’s only one thing for it.

 

He doesn’t want to make Enjolras feel bad, really, but he can’t help it. The food sits in his stomach like a brick and he has to get it out. It’s too much.

 

He goes to the cabinet and puts two heaping tablespoons of baking powder in a glass of water, and drinks it. He refills the water and drinks it, refills it and drinks it, as fast as he can. When his stomach starts to cramp and his heart is pounding, he forces himself to look down at his body, at his too-big disgusting body, and keeps going. He has to get it out. It was a mistake to even eat at all. He could have avoided this by having a little self-control, but he couldn’t do that and now he’s stuck with this, stuck doing this vile, disgusting, pathetic thing.

 

He goes to the bathroom and forces his fingers down his throat. He keeps them there, feeling his short nails scrape at the sensitive tissues at the back of his throat, gagging and choking and coughing, until he finally feels the rush of fluid. He vomits into the toilet.

 

As he straightens up, he sees stars all over his field of vision. He looks down—good, he got it all the first time. That used to be rarer, when he was starving himself or purging more often. Now that he eats regularly, it’s less work to get it back up.

 

He’s suddenly bone-weary, so tired it’s everything he can do to flush the toilet, rinse out his mouth, and stumble to bed.

 

When the phone rings a few moments later, he’s too tired to answer it. He registers dimly that it must be Enjolras but he doesn’t want to talk to him, doesn’t want to feel better. He just wants to lie here in a haze of sick misery. He wants to feel pathetic because he is.

 

It’s not a pleasant surprise when Enjolras arrives just a few minutes later. Grantaire manages to open his eyes, just barely. “What are you doing here?” he snaps.

 

“I wanted to see if you were okay.”

 

“I’m just not feeling well,” he says.

 

“I can see that,” Enjolras murmurs. “Can I?” He gestures at the bed. Grantaire doesn’t want him to sit down, just wants him to go away, but he knows accomplishing that will mean convincing Enjolras that he’s fine.

 

“Sure.”

 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t take your call earlier.”

 

“That’s fine. You don’t have to be on call every second of the damn day.”

 

“I know, but… Look, I get that it’s not easy to ask for help with this stuff. Especially given everything. I-“

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“No you’re-“ Enjolras starts, half-shouting, and Grantaire is almost a little shamefully satisfied to have made him explode like that. Then he hesitates and takes a deep breath. When he speaks again, he’s much calmer. “I can tell that something is wrong. If you really want to be left alone, I guess I can do that, but it would mean a lot if you could talk to me about whatever it is that’s on your mind. I really do want to know.”

 

“I’m stupid.”

 

“We both know that’s not true.” Enjolras smiles. “You may have a number of faults—though I’m personally inclined to think you’re pretty amazing—but you are most definitely not stupid. I think you’re probably the smartest person I know, actually.”

 

“That’s not true. A smart person wouldn’t be crying over a fucking piece of  pastry. For God’s sake, Enjolras, I’m a grown man. This is pathetic. Why can’t I just get over it?”

 

“It’s going to take time. You’re working on it. But it’s nothing to be ashamed of, R. You have a problem, but a lot of people do. A lot of people have struggled in life and you’re one of them. You should be proud of how far you’ve come rather than anything else.

 

“I really don’t want to talk about this right now,” Grantaire says softly.

 

“Okay. We don’t have to. Is there something you’d like to do?”

 

“Just…just get left alone.”

 

“I’m going to stay in the apartment,” Enjolras says with a small frown. “I’ll be in the other room, okay?”

 

“If you have to. I really don’t mean to keep you away from the work you need to do—“

 

“Grantaire, frankly, I couldn’t live with myself if I walked away from you right now. I’ll give you some privacy if that’s really what you insist on, but unless you absolutely need me to go, I want to be with you more than anything else. I want to do whatever I can to help, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

Enjolras leaves, but not before he presses a soft kiss to Grantaire’s forehead. “I love you, and I’m here for you.”

  
“Thank you,” Grantaire manages.

 

The rest of that day is a loss. He spends it, and the next, in bed. He doesn’t eat dinner when Enjolras tries to tempt him with it, and when he wakes up he’s no longer even hungry. It’s easy enough to spend the rest of the day without eating anything.

 

But the next day, when he goes to see Dr. Simplice, he’s able to talk honestly about what happened. The morning after that, he goes for brunch with Joly and Bossuet and doesn’t feel even the slightest bit guilty about it.

 

Maybe that’s the biggest victory so far—that he’s able to bounce back.

 

He apologizes to Enjolras for snapping at him, and makes the both of them dinner as a gesture. They have a wonderful night at home together,  curled up on the couch with big bowls of curry, and Grantaire starts to remember why he wants to get better.

 

It’s for brunch with his friends, and not losing his temper with his boyfriend, and being able to engage with work, and for moments like this.

 

It’s worth it. He just has to remember that it’s worth it.

 

 

* * *

 

Enjolras has never been in love before.

 

It’s a little hard to get used to.

 

That’s not to say that he’s never cared about anyone else this much before—he can’t really quantify his emotions in that way. It wouldn’t be fair, for instance, to say that he loves Combeferre less, just differently.

 

Still, it is different. He’s never felt this kind of all-consuming worry before.  He’s never stayed up nights thinking about another person. He’s never cared quite this much before.

 

It’s frightening, to love someone so much and know you might lose him. Know you might have to see him hurting, day after day.

 

Because although Grantaire is getting better, he’s not fine. He’s a long way away from that.

 

Enjolras does everything he can.

 

He urges Grantaire to eat when he thinks that’s what he needs and he doesn’t when he’s not sure that will help. He’s as patient as he can be. He always tries to tell Grantaire as many good things about himself as he can.

 

Sometimes—like the other day—Grantaire pushes him away.

 

It hurts. He won’t pretend that it doesn’t, but he has to get through it. It’s difficult for Grantaire to ask him for help, and he has to be the first to offer it whenever he can.

 

He thinks sometimes that Grantaire might feel guilty, like being with him is  a hardship just because he needs that support.

 

He does everything he can to make sure Grantaire doesn’t feel that way.

 

He wants them to have fun together—and they do. He goes out much more now than he ever did before they were dating.

 

It is hard sometimes, though. They can’t always go out to eat—sometimes Grantaire feels like having the whole event of the evening be food-related is too much pressure. Of course, they have to stay away from bars.

 

Fortunately, Grantaire knows the city much better than Enjolras does, and he’s always happy to suggest something. They end up going to the theatre, seeing foreign films in charmingly run-down little places, wandering the halls of Paris’ great and tiny museums. When Grantaire is in a good mood, being with him is an adventure. He leads Enjolras around the city with a smile on his face and a breakneck pace and keeping up with him is exhilirating and wonderful.

 

When he’s not in a good mood, he’s quiet. He doesn’t like a lot of company, though as they’ve been together longer he’s gotten used to Enjolras wanting to be there. He tolerates a second, silent presence, sitting by the bed, reading a book or talking quietly to him or just being there.

 

He reminds him, usually in words but sometimes just by his presence, that Enjolras wants to be with him, even when it’s not easy.

 

He still goes to Grantaire’s various therapies. After the first few sessions with Dr. Simplice, once they’ve talked through most of his history, that gets easier. It’s the dietician who’s the hardest. He’s the one who makes suggestions—not quite instructions, a little gentler than that, but still firm and specific—that involve what Grantaire has to do if he wants to get better.

 

It starts with eating breakfast.

 

He’s supposed to try every day for a week. It doesn’t have to be a lot, just a piece of toast or some fruit will do. Grantaire swears he wants to try and Enjolras agrees to help him out with it.

 

By the third morning, it feels like a war.

 

“Come on, R. Just a bite. Can’t you try it?”

 

“Sorry,” Grantaire is saying, his voice small. He’s shaking his head, looking away, anywhere but at the plate of eggs. “I’m sorry. I’m just not hungry.”

 

“But the doctor said-“

 

“I know what the doctor said.” But he doesn’t sound angry, just defeated. Exhausted.

 

“If you really can’t-“

 

“I really don’t think I can. I’m sorry.”

 

“Hey, R, don’t apologize. You’re doing the best you can, and that’s always going to be good enough for me.”

 

“Is it?” Grantaire asks, his voice a little choked. “I- I’m totally ashamed to even ask, but I- I’m worried that you’re going to get sick of me. That you’re going to get tired of all this and give up on me.”

 

“Oh, R.” Enjolras takes a deep breath. “I can’t promise that we’ll be together forever, but I swear to you, I know what this entails, and I promise you it’s not going to scare me off.”

 

“I love you so fucking much. I’ll never know what I did to deserve it.”

 

Enjolras kisses him softly. “I love you too. And I’m right here. Breakfast or no, every step of the way. I’m by your side.”

 

He wishes he could say that the words are enough. That they inspire Grantaire to pick up that damn fork and keep eating, or at least try. That they do anything at all.

 

But maybe this is a war words can’t win. Maybe the reason Enjolras hasn’t said the right thing yet is that there isn’t a right thing to say, at least not one he can figure out.

 

But it’s not like he makes no difference- not from what he can see from the sweet, soft smile on Grantaire’s face, the way he squeezes Enjolras’ hand almost too tight when Enjolras laces their fingers together, the way he agrees…

 

“I’ll try again tomorrow.”

 

And the day after that, and the day after that. No matter how many days it takes, no matter how many times it doesn’t go the way he wants it to, no matter how hard it all is, no matter what.

 

There’s no other choice but to keep trying.

 

* * *

 

Their life together has fallen into a routine.

 

They wake up early and go to the _boulangerie_ down the street for breakfast, eating at a little table outside if it’s nice enough and taking their breakfast back home if it’s not. Enjolras heads off to work and Grantaire gets some painting done. Around noon he’ll make himself lunch and text Enjolras to let him know he’s eaten, and then head off to open up his book stand. He spends most of the afternoon there, then catches a late-afternoon fencing class or two before meeting Enjolras for the Amis meeting at the Musain and then dinner either there or back home.

 

It’s way better than anything he ever expected to have.

 

Grantaire’s past relationships haven’t exactly set him up to expect something like this. Even after the disaster that was his first relationship, they’ve been mostly either casual or ended in pain or Grantaire has ended up caring way more than his significant other does.

 

But in this case, Enjolras just keeps surprising him with how great everything can be. He never thought he’d have this.

 

Over time, though he starts to feel like he deserves it.

 

After a while, he usually doesn’t feel guilty about calling Enjolras for help anymore—or at least when he does, he can recognize that it’s not Enjolras’fault. It’s all on him, all him inventing the fear and worry. In reality, Enjolras is only too happy. When Grantaire’s thinking clearly, he knows that.

 

He eats three meals almost every day now. He’s still not sure whether or not the portions are normal, but he tries to match what Enjolras eats as a guide, more or less. He makes it a week, and then a month, and then two months without purging.

 

And then he relapses, and he feels disgusting and awful just as he had the first time, but with the added fact that he’s letting himself down after all this time.

 

Yet the next day, he starts again.

 

He wants to let himself get derailed by that, but he doesn’t.

 

He has something to fight for now.

 

In therapy, he’s started to recognize that he was basically trying to slowly starve himself to death. He’ll still catch himself thinking all kinds of fucked-up things—two weeks ago, during a horrifying fight over dinner, he’d said to Enjolras, “I don’t care if it’s healthy! I’d rather be thin and dead than healthy and fat.”

 

Enjolras had just looked at him with so much sadness in his eyes.

 

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says immediately. “I never should have said that.”

 

“Did you mean it?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Then of course you should tell me, R. I need to know if I’m going to help.”

 

“I just…” Grantaire swallows, his throat dry. “I just don’t want you to worry.”

 

“Well, that’s kind of a foregone conclusion,” Enjolras says. “I’m going to worry about you no matter what, okay? Because I care about you. I can’tturn that off. But it’s not your fault. It’s not anything for you to feel guilty about.”

 

“I can’t help feeling bad. This isn’t what I wanted, you having to worry. I wanted to make you happy.”

 

“You do,” Enjolras says, and his voice is so sincere Grantaire can’t help but believe it. “By being with me, by trusting me enough to tell me even when things aren’t going well—and just by being you.”

 

Grantaire tries to laugh at the cliché, but he can’t. He’s too full of joy, knowing it’s true. Or, at least, starting to believe it.

 

He still believes those other things. He probably always will.

 

Not every day. It’s not constant, and sometimes even when he’s acting on them he can still question them, can still catch himself thinking “This is wrong” even as he throws his meals away or feels sick to look at his own body.

 

He thinks he’s disgusting. He compares his body constantly to other people’s—Enjolras’, his friends’, strangers’ on the street. He thinks he’d be a better person if he ate less. He thinks wanting things—food, love, reassurance, comfort—is greedy and selfish. He thinks Enjolras would love him more if he were thinner.

 

And yet he recognizes that all of these things are wrong, at least some of the time.

 

The process of recognizing that he is not his eating disorder is more difficult than he would have imagined.

 

It’s incredibly freeing and wonderful, on the one hand, recognizing that no, in fact, he doesn’t really think any of those things. No, none of that is right and real and true. It’s just his mind working in all the wrong ways, working to trick and decieve and hurt him, and he doesn’t have to listen to it.

 

 It’s amazing to realize all the other ways he can think about himself, that he can like his hair and not mind the shape of his arms and appreciate his own art and recognize that he’s a good friend.

 

But it’s also deeply disturbing, because for so many years he wasn’t thinking like that. No, he thought all those disordered beliefs were _himself,_ and it’s so frightening to recognize that they never were.

 

That this disorder, this terrifying life-consuming thing, is so deep inside him that he’s not sure where he begins and it ends. He’s not sure who he’ll be without it or if he ever will be without it.

 

Sometimes he misses being sicker. At least then he was sure.

 

He knew who he was, even if what he knew was that he was disgusting and ugly and unworthy and pathetic.

 

Now he has no idea. Everything is shifting, changing, unknown.

 

For now, he has Enjolras with him, to guide him through this new life he’s trying to figure out.

 

He doesn’t know how long that will last, though. He’s trying not to depend on him, because even Enjolras can’t promise that their relationship will last forever. Like anything else, it could end.

 

It could end, leaving Grantaire with nothing. Leaving Grantaire alone.

 

Grantaire is pretty sure he would relapse badly if that happened, but he can also see himself clawing his way back to health, getting better again. He has enough confidence right now in their relationship that he knows things won’t just end out of nowhere, and it won’t be because of his weight. If their relationship does fall apart, it’ll be for other reasons.

 

And Grantaire will still have everything he’s gotten from this relationship. He’ll still have the strength and the drive to get better and the experience with therapy and the confidence to confide in his friends.

 

So it will be a long climb back up, but he feels sure he could make it.

 

It’s certainly not direct, not even now, with Enjolras. He gets better some days and then worse again. His progress is anything but linear.

 

And yet—

 

And yet, as confusing and frightening as it all is, as much as he struggles to create this new self as someone distinct from the disorder that controlled him for so long, it’s all worth it.

 

Sometimes he forgets that. Sometimes the disorder pulls him back in and convinces him that nothing, nothing at all, is better than the dream of being thin.

 

But most of the time, he knows that’s not true. Most of the time he recognizes how much better his life is free of binging and purging and starving and constantly, constantly hating himself.

 

Most of the time, he recognizes how free he is.

 

The tunnel he’s in—the pit of his disorder—is deep and dark and full of monsters from his past that keep grabbing him and dragging him down. He thought it was endless. He thought that’s how his life would always be.

 

But now, he’s seeing the light at the end, and it’s blindingly, beautifully bright. He’s reaching for it all the time, basking in it, sometimes getting so close.

 

And slowly, not so surely, bit by bit, backsliding all the time but then continuing—he’s going to pull himself out.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s never going to be easy for Grantaire.

 

Enjolras realizes that after a few months. He’s still not making steady progress- some days he’s better, the next day he’ll be worse again. He’s still fighting.

 

He may fight forever, and that’s so unfair it fills Enjolras with the familiar fury that governs so much of what he does. Grantaire is so kind and generous and loving, and he deserves better than this. He deserves to love himself as much as Enjolras loves him.

 

But that may never happen. All Enjolras can do is be there for him, support him through the bad times and help him celebrate the good.

 

All he can do is love Grantaire, no matter what.

 

And he does. He does.


End file.
